Think Back on Yesterday
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: A mysterious force causes Fakir to believe himself the legendary Lohengrin. With Mytho and Rue called back to their kingdom, Ahiru and Autor are on their own as they fight to restore Fakir's true memories and his knowledge of them.
1. Dark Warning

**Princess Tutu**

**Think Back on Yesterday**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! This was largely inspired by a beautiful AMV on YouTube made by PrincessSorica, set to the song _Please Remember_ by LeAnn Rimes. It was also inspired by the prompt _Fugue State_ at Paranormal25 on Livejournal. It is a loose follow-up to _Fall From Grace_, but that story doesn't have to be read first. Just be aware that this is post-series and Ahiru is human. All else is explained within the fic. Thanks to Kaze for plot help!**

**Chapter One**

"_Ahiru?"_

"_Fakir?"_

_The two were moving towards each other on Kinkan Town's main street. Each stretched out a hand, reaching for the other. For some reason it was difficult, as if they were pushing against a fierce current seeking to repel them._

_Ahiru strained, her blue eyes wide in pain and fear. "Fakir, what's wrong?" she cried. "Why can't we . . ."_

_Before he could respond, the invisible barrier swirled in fury, sending them both flying backwards off their feet. They cried out in shock and surprise as they hit the ground in opposite directions._

_As they looked up, hoping to see the cause of their misfortune, the wind reformed into a sentient, yet transparent, shape. Green-black hair fell past the spectre's shoulders and was drawn back into a ponytail by an unseen force. Green eyes flashed, a cruel smirk splitting the young, handsome features._

_Ahiru gasped. "Fakir, that's . . ."_

_Fakir's doppelganger drew a sword, one that, oddly enough, bore the quill of a pen carved into the hilt. He turned, raising the weapon against his solid counterpart._

_Fakir did not even have the chance to defend himself before the blade fell. Ahiru's scream was the last thing that seared into his mind as the raging pain sent him into eternal darkness._

xxxx

He started awake, breathing heavily and drenched in cold sweat. He sprang upright in bed, the covers falling back from his shoulders as he did. His heart pounded, but even as it slowed back to normal, something about it pricked him for a moment. Still, he was too alarmed over the dream to pay it much heed.

"What _was_ that?" he gasped, leaning forward and digging his hands into his hair. "I was killed by a ghost of myself?"

He shook his head. It did not make sense.

Slowly he got out of bed, crossing to the window. Kinkan was asleep, just as it should be at two in the morning. There were no buildings or homes where the lights still burned. Several stray autumn leaves rolled across the street below, carried by an approaching winter breeze.

Fakir scarcely noticed. His mind was already drifting back to his bizarre dream. His counterpart had held a sword with a quill pen design as the hilt. What kind of significance could there be in that?

_The pen is mightier than the sword._

For the pen to _become_ a sword, did it have something to do with how he had chosen to fight with his writing instead of a blade?

But why had he been killed by it?

_Killed by writing. . . ._

It could have something to do with Drosselmeyer's fate, which he could imagine the Bookmen were still ready to inflict on him if he stepped out of line according to their definition. But on the other hand . . .

His eyes widened. "Autor," he uttered.

Was his dream the manifestation of stress left over from Autor being possessed by his own Story and being driven to kill himself to end its power and save Fakir and the others?

But if so, why would a crazed Fakir doppelganger have been the murderer and Fakir the victim? He had certainly dreamt of Autor's descent to madness countless times since it had happened. Sometimes he still saw in his mind's eye the other boy laughing maniacally, then growing panicked and plunging the letter-opener into his chest to preserve the lives of his friends. Yet he always saw Autor, never himself.

He stiffened. Could it be a warning about his own Story? If Autor's could come to life, why couldn't his own as well?

This was too much to think about so late, he determined, turning away from the window. In the morning he would talk to Autor, but right now he should lay down and try to go back to sleep.

He shuffled back to the bed and collapsed onto the mattress. Though he had thought he would stay wide awake, he dozed within a matter of minutes.

And subconsciously, he laid a hand over his heart in his sleep.

xxxx

"Fakir!"

He gave a start, the knife slipping from his hand and to the wooden table in Charon's kitchen. "What is it?" he said in impatient annoyance.

Ahiru frowned at him. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" she said. She was standing on his side of the table, her hands on her hips.

Fakir grunted. "Of course I have," he said, retrieving the knife to resume buttering a piece of bread.

"What did I say then?" Ahiru persisted.

Fakir's eyebrows knitted. He had hoped, of course in vain, that Ahiru would let the matter drop—or that if he thought hard enough, he could salvage the memory of some of her words. Neither was true. Ahiru was glaring at him, not about to back down. And he had let his mind wander with thoughts of his weird dream before she had even started to speak.

"Okay," he grumbled in resignation. "What did you say?"

Ahiru let out an exasperated, weary sigh. "I said it's been lonely since Mytho and Rue got called back to their kingdom," she said. "And I wondered if they'd be able to get back for Christmas."

"I wouldn't know," Fakir said. "Mytho's parents will want to spend time with them too."

It was strange to think of Mytho as having parents, really. For so long, Charon had been the only parent the once-heartless boy had known. But since Mytho was a prince, there was still a king and a queen. Someday he would take over the full responsibilities of the kingdom, but as of yet he had not.

Once that happened, Fakir supposed, Mytho would not be able to get away to visit. He frowned, turning away from that thought. He had thought visiting would not be possible when Mytho and Rue had departed the first time, at the end of Drosselmeyer's Story. And he had only recently learned otherwise. He wanted to think that he would be able to see Mytho for some time still.

In the present, Ahiru nodded at Fakir's words. "But now that their kingdom is part of Earth, they should be able to visit more," she said, finally going back to her seat and sitting down again.

"Yeah, I guess," said Fakir.

"By the way, Fakir, what were you thinking about?" Ahiru frowned. "You got this really serious look on your face. I mean, not that you don't usually have a really serious look, but . . ."

"It was nothing," Fakir interrupted. "I was just thinking I need to talk to Autor after school today."

Ahiru looked at him in surprise. "You do? Why?"

"There's just some things I want to get clear with him." Fakir took a drink of orange juice.

"He hasn't been back to school very long," Ahiru remarked. "He's caught up with what he missed, but he always seems so tired." She looked at Fakir, worried. "He's probably been getting hardly any sleep and is pushing himself too hard."

Fakir latched onto this as an excuse. "Yeah, probably," he said. "I was going to tell him to slow down and take it easy."

Ahiru gave a firm nod. "He'll work himself into a collapse if he isn't careful!" she said. She smiled. "But I'm glad you're letting me know you're worried about him too, Fakir. You've been getting along a lot better lately with him."

Fakir grunted and shrugged. "I can see he's back to himself," he said. "His darkest side—and his Story—don't have a hold over him any more."

"I think you were always worried about him, but you just didn't say so," Ahiru said. "You have a problem with that a lot, Fakir!"

Fakir chose not to respond. Part of him did not like keeping from Ahiru the real reason he intended to see Autor. But the other part did not want her to worry unnecessarily. Depending on what Autor could tell him, he would relay all or some of the truth back to Ahiru.

As he bit into the bread, a sharp pang shot into his heart. He gasped, letting the slice fall back to his plate and clapping a hand over his chest.

Ahiru leaped to her feet again. "Fakir!" she exclaimed in alarm. "What's wrong?" She ran around the table and to his side, but he was already straightening up and reaching for the bread.

"It's nothing," he said. "I must've been lying down funny and pulled something just now. It's already gone."

Ahiru frowned. "It wasn't nothing or you wouldn't have looked like you were in so much pain!" she said.

Fakir shook his head, as bewildered as she. "If it's something to worry about, we'll know sooner or later," he said. "Right now I'm fine."

Ahiru was not convinced. But she shuffled back to her seat and plopped down. "Well, one thing hasn't changed," she muttered. "You still say you're okay even if you're not."

Fakir chose not to reply to that, either.

xxxx

Autor was playing the piano in his living room when Fakir arrived at his house that afternoon. He paused, hearing the knock, and then played to the end of the measure before getting up and going to answer the door.

Fakir regarded him with an unimpressed expression. "When someone's at your door, you're not supposed to keep them waiting," he said.

"Impatient as always," Autor said, resting one hand on his hip. "But come in anyway."

Fakir went past him and into the stone entryway. "Autor," he said after a moment, determining to simply plunge in, "what do you think happened to your Story when you ended it?"

Autor stiffened. "What do you mean?" he asked, instantly on his guard as he shut the door. From his body language and the tone of his voice, he wondered if Fakir was angry and was going to bring up the past again. Not that he was not still angry with himself for his lack of control. His eyes gave a slight flicker. He had not fully forgiven himself for falling prey to his darkest desires and his possessive Story. He wondered if he even could.

But Fakir shook his head. "I just want to know what you think happened to it," he said. "Did you kill it along with yourself? Or is it still lurking out there, somewhere?"

"I thought I'd halted its progression for good," Autor said. "I hoped it was gone, but I don't know. What's this about, Fakir?" He walked over to the other boy, his brown eyes searching for some answer to this mystery.

"I had a crazy dream last night," Fakir said. "Basically I was killed by a duplicate of me that used a sword with a quill pen carving in the hilt."

Autor stared at him. "A duplicate of yourself?" he repeated in disbelief.

"Yeah. I know it could just be stupid and not mean anything, but after everything we've been through I have to wonder." Fakir crossed his arms.

Autor frowned. "Sit down," he said, gesturing at the study.

Fakir could tell he was troubled. He went over, taking up the wooden bench. Autor sat across from him in a chair. He leaned forward, looking tense.

"Did this double look and dress exactly like you except for the sword?"

Fakir thought a moment. "He was transparent, like a ghost," he said. "And he was giving off this greenish aura. But other than that, yeah, he was just like me."

Autor trembled. "I've started to remember that my Story first appeared before me as an apparition," he said. "It, or my darker side, blocked the memories later." He looked Fakir in the eyes. "Have you been writing?"

Fakir shook his head. "Not lately," he said. "I haven't tried since . . ." But he trailed off. The last time he had attempted to write had been after Autor's death. In horrified desperation Fakir had struggled to write him back to life, to no avail. It was due to a miracle unrelated to the one Fakir had attempted that Autor had been able to revive.

Autor averted his gaze, determining what Fakir did not say. "Then I don't know," he said. "Maybe the dream means nothing. Maybe it's just your own inner fears being given a voice. But on the other hand . . ."

"It would have to be an old Story doing this, one I already ended," Fakir said. "But if they won't rest even after you've finished them, how are you really supposed to stop them?"

It did not help his confidence to see that Autor honestly looked at a loss himself. The composer sank back into the chair, absently digging in his pocket for a handkerchief. As he found and drew it out, he removed his glasses and began to clean the lenses.

"I don't know," he said at last. "Drosselmeyer knew about the Stories' potential to become sentient, but he never told it to anyone. He became so powerful that it wasn't a concern for him."

Fakir growled. "Surely he must have written his findings somewhere, even just for his own reference," he said.

"It's possible," Autor said. "I've actually tried to look, but I haven't found anything."

"How extensive is your collection?" Fakir asked. "Surely there must be some things of his you don't have."

"Of course," Autor said. "And I've looked high and low for those artifacts in Drosselmeyer's old home. If he preserved his knowledge about the sentient Stories, however, it has to be carefully hidden, either in some compartment or in plain sight." He replaced his glasses and looked to Fakir.

The Story-Spinner shifted, uncomfortable now. ". . . If the dream actually is important, what do you think it means?" he asked. "Am I going to be killed by one of my own Stories?"

"I doubt it's completely literal, in any case," Autor said. "But killing you wouldn't have any effect on Stories that have already ended. I can't think of any reason why a Story of yours would want to end your life." He paused. "Maybe we should start thinking of other interpretations. Instead of killing you, what if that was symbolic for something else?"

Fakir frowned. "Like what?" he said. "The sword came down on me before I had a chance to do anything. It seemed clear-cut to me."

"How did it cut you down?" Autor returned.

Fakir froze as the memories hit him. ". . . It went across my birthmark," he remembered. With a shaking hand he reached up, tracing the path of both the discolored skin and the blade diagonally across his shoulder and his chest.

Autor's eyes narrowed. "Then you were torn in two just as your past self was in Drosselmeyer's Story," he said. "The fate you've always feared."

Fakir gave a weak nod. Absently he moved his hand up, placing it over his heart.

"That wasn't the path of the sword," Autor noted. "What are you doing, Fakir?"

Fakir blinked. "What am I . . ." He looked down at himself. Slowly he took his hand away, staring as it trembled. "My heart was hurting again. . . ."

"Again?" Autor got up, concerned now as he walked to the bench. "It was hurting before?"

Fakir nodded. "This morning," he said. And was it his imagination or had it been bothering him in the nighttime too, when he had awakened from his nightmare? "I think it started up in the night," he added, "right after I woke up. I was too upset at the time to think about it."

"You should see a doctor," Autor said. "Though on second thought, if this has something to do with your dream, a physician wouldn't be any help at all."

Fakir leaned back. "I'm fine now," he said. "But what are you talking about? How would this have anything to do with it? You said yourself it doesn't follow the path of the sword, and that's true. My heart would have already stopped once the sword . . ." He trailed off, not finishing his sentence.

Deep down, he wondered if part of him still feared that fate. It would never happen to him, but still. It was such a horrifying way to die.

For a moment Autor was silent. "I was in physical pain when I resisted the voice of my Story," he said. "I fought it anyway; it could only take complete control of me after I lost consciousness. Yet even when I wasn't aware of it, I was being guided by its desires." _The desires I poured into it,_ he said to himself. _I can never forget that I brought it into existence._

Aloud once more he said, "I can't believe you're actually falling victim to such a thing, though. You're stronger than I am, and even at my level it took a long time before my Story became so aggressive."

"And I haven't been writing," Fakir objected. "Anyway, why would a Story of mine want to . . ."

Again he trailed off, though not by choice. His skin drained of all color as his eyes widened in absolute agony. He clutched at his heart with both hands, too much in pain to even scream.

Thoroughly alarmed, Autor bent in front of Fakir and gripped his shoulders. "Fakir, look at me!" he commanded. "Don't give in to it. Whatever it is, don't . . ."

Fakir shuddered violently, looking at Autor with agonized eyes. "I . . . I don't . . ." But he trailed off as the cry tore from his lips. His eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forward, crashing into Autor.

The other boy stumbled back, struggling to support the limp body. "Fakir!" he cried. "Fakir, wake up. Don't fall unconscious!" But he could tell from the utter stillness of Fakir's form that it was too late.

In concern he drew back, carefully easing Fakir onto the wooden bench with his head lowered and his legs slightly raised. He was breathing, but his expression was pained. Autor took his wrist, carefully checking his pulse. It was racing.

He frowned. What should he do? He was more inclined to believe that this did have some connection with Fakir's Stories, but he could be wrong. What if Fakir was ill because of some other, physical problem? Could he have even experienced a heart attack? Or, for all he would know, the Story could have decided to harm Fakir with a heart attack.

A knock on the door startled him from his concerns. He looked up, brushing the stray hair away that had started to slip over his forehead. Stumbling to his feet, he went to the vestibule and opened the door. Ahiru was standing there, rocking impatiently and looking worried. But she tried to put on a cheerful front.

"Autor!" she greeted. "Hi! How are you?"

"I'm alright," Autor said.

"That's good." Ahiru hesitated. "Um, is Fakir here?" she queried. "He said he was going to come over and . . ."

Autor took a deep breath. Unbidden to his mind came the remembrance of the first time a scenario such as this had played out. They had not yet been friends when Ahiru had come asking for Fakir during the time Autor had been training him. She had been the friend of Drosselmeyer's direct heir and he had been the harsh teacher. They had met solely because of their connections to Fakir and he had thought they would continue to only know each other as such.

Sometimes it still struck him as odd that they were friends now. They were certainly an unlikely pair—an arrogant researcher who was insecure deep down and a clumsy girl who had once been a duck. Yet only she had been able to break through his resolve to not try any more to form platonic relationships. It had been after that when he had realized that he considered Fakir a friend as well, but had never acknowledged it even to himself.

And he would not hold the victory in his struggle with his inner darkness if not for them—and Rue and Mytho. For them to remain his friends even after everything he had done against them, he knew he had found the loyalty he had always longed for but had been denied. He would forever remain loyal in turn.

"He's here," he said at last, "but . . ."

"Is something wrong?" Ahiru interrupted. "I knew he was acting weird at breakfast, but he kept saying he was fine." She glowered at the stone inside the doorway. "He always does that."

"He's not fine," Autor said. He held the door open further. "He actually just collapsed on me. I don't know what's wrong."

"What?" Ahiru ran in past him, her eyes wide in shock and alarm. "Fakir! _Fakir!_" She fell to her knees next to the bench, staring at Fakir's silent form. "Fakir, wake up," she pleaded, helplessness washing over her as he remained motionless.

Autor shut the door and came over next to her. "I don't know if it's a physical problem or if it could be related to something else," he said. "I hadn't had a chance to call the medics yet, but they might not be able to do anything for him either."

Ahiru stiffened, her head snapping up. "What do you mean?" she gasped. "What's this about something else? What's wrong with him?"

"We'll talk about it later," Autor said. "Right now we need to try reviving him."

Ahiru gave a shaking nod. "Should I get some water?" she asked.

"Yes." Autor checked Fakir's vital signs again. His pulse had slowed; by now it was almost normal. Hopefully that was encouraging. Autor was still not certain if getting Fakir to a hospital was what they should be doing right now, but if they could not quickly bring him around Autor would see to it that it was done.

Ahiru scurried away and returned before long with a bowl of water and a clean cloth. Autor took them, dampening the cloth and brushing it over Fakir's face and neck. After a moment the other boy flinched, turning his head to the side.

Ahiru leaned forward, still worried but hopeful as well. "Fakir?" she called. "Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

After a moment there was a grunted reply. "What are you talking about?" Fakir muttered.

Autor frowned. Fakir sounded irritated, and while that was normal for him, there was something about his voice now that seemed different.

Ahiru did not seem to notice. "What do you mean, 'What am I talking about'?" she exclaimed. "You fainted or something!"

"Fainted." Fakir forced his eyes open halfway. But as they focused on Ahiru and then Autor, Autor realized what he had sensed.

The eyes, like Fakir's voice, were blank and devoid of recognition.

"Who are you?" Fakir demanded.

Ahiru stared at him. "That isn't funny!" she cried. "Fakir, I don't want to hear you teasing right now! We're both really worried about you!"

"I'm not teasing." Fakir sat up, pushing his damp bangs away from his eyes. "And why do you keep calling me 'Fakir'?" he said. "That isn't my name."

Ahiru's mouth dropped open. She was about to exclaim something else when Autor gripped her shoulder. She turned to him, ready to cry out in protest. But the warning look in his eyes silenced her.

"What is your name?" Autor asked, turning back to Fakir.

For a long moment Fakir hesitated, looking to him and then to Ahiru again. "Lohengrin," he said at last. "And now that I've told you, I have to leave."


	2. A Return

**Chapter Two**

Both Autor and Ahiru were struck with shock and disbelief. For a moment neither could say a word to Fakir's flabbergasting announcement. But then Ahiru snapped to, running in front of Fakir as he stood.

"What are you talking about?" she cried. "You're Fakir! Who's Lohengrin?" She clenched her fists. "Stop pretending right now!"

Fakir looked down at her with a frown. "Do you always talk so fast? How does anyone have the patience to listen long enough to understand you?"

Ahiru flinched. Biting back the building retort on her lips, she stared into Fakir's cold, blank eyes. A sword threatened to pierce her heart at what she saw there—and what she did not. She could not accept it, yet no other explanation was presenting itself.

"Fakir," she gasped, "you don't remember, do you? Me, or Autor, or anything we've been through?" Her voice lowered. "Or even Mytho?"

"I told you!" Fakir retorted. "My name is Lohengrin. I've never seen either of you people before in my life. And unless I'm being held captive, there is nothing to bind me to this place."

He narrowed his eyes at Autor, who looked back with a gaze that was at first veiled. Worry then flickered in his brown eyes, but he answered calmly, "You're free to come and go whenever you want."

"Good." Fakir brushed past Autor, heading for the entryway.

Ahiru looked on in horror. "Autor, what are you doing?" she burst out. "We can't let him go out like this!"

Autor let out a sigh. "I know that," he said. "But chaining him to the bench won't help this problem any. We need to get him at least somewhat cooperative."

Looking to Fakir as he crossed to the edge of the room he said, "You can do what you like, but you haven't been well. Your heart's been bothering you. When you woke up just now, you were recovering from a collapse." He met Fakir's suspicious gaze as the other turned back. "Before you go anywhere else, you should have a doctor examine you. You want to be in perfect health to carry out your duties."

Fakir frowned. "I don't remember having any problems with my heart," he said. "But my awakening did seem unnatural, so maybe I will see a doctor."

"We'll take you there," Autor said.

Fakir looked at him, displeased. "I don't trust you," he said.

"But do you know how to get there?" Autor countered.

"I'll ask directions." Fakir stepped into the vestibule.

Ahiru gaped in alarm. "What if you collapse again?"

Autor nodded. "It could happen," he said. "And if it did, it would be more profitable for you to not be alone."

Fakir glowered at the both of them. "Alright," he said. "I'll journey with you. But only until I've seen the physician. Then I'm leaving." With that he went out the door.

Ahiru looked to Autor in panic. "What are we going to do?" she cried.

Autor looked back to her. "I'll try to find a point to talk to the doctor alone about this," he said. "He might have an idea of what's going on or what we can do."

"And what's this about Fakir's heart?" Ahiru demanded. "I knew something was wrong with him at breakfast! But he wouldn't tell me a thing!"

"This isn't the time to talk about it," Autor said. "The most important thing is not to lose sight of him." He headed for the door, Ahiru trailing right behind.

Fakir gave them an annoyed look when they stepped outside. "I was starting to think you weren't coming," he said.

"Of course we're coming!" Ahiru shot back. "We're not going to leave you, Fakir."

"Lohengrin," Fakir rumbled as he turned away.

Looking as helpless as she felt, Ahiru trudged after him.

_So you think you're Lohengrin, the Swan Knight?_ Autor thought to himself, feeling grim as he also followed. _What will happen if you, the knight who was meant to die, try to act out a knight's duties? And . . . are you aware that some think Prince Siegfried's unnamed knight was Lohengrin? Will you try to find his kingdom?_

If so, that could either work for good or ill. Mytho might be able to help restore Fakir's memories, or at least, to keep him from doing anything dangerous. Yet what if he could not?

His eyes widened at the thought that struck him. Could Fakir's dream have been a warning about this? With his identity taken from him, he was certainly not whole. And Autor had felt that there must be some significance to Fakir being killed in the same manner as the knight.

But even if that interpretation was true, how could he explain who the murderer was? If one of Fakir's Stories actually had risen up in rebellion, it would have had a reason. And Autor still could not think what that could be.

"Fakir zura!"

Everyone jumped a mile at the familiar voice. To all of their shock, and Fakir's confusion, Uzura was standing on a nearby street corner. She beat her drum happily, then leaped off the curb and ran over to them.

"I'm back zura!" she declared.

"Uzura!" Ahiru exclaimed. "Where did you come from?"

"I followed Autor here zura!" said Uzura, clearly proud of herself. "When he was in the old man's world zura."

Autor stared at her. "But that was weeks ago!" he protested.

"I got lost zura," Uzura admitted. "I went all over the country zura!"

Suddenly realizing that the other member of the party had been silent, she looked to Fakir with a frown. "Aren't you happy to see me zura?" she asked. Her blue eyes glistened.

"I don't even know who you are," Fakir said. "And I'll tell you the same thing I told them—my name is Lohengrin."

Ahiru winced, hurting for Uzura. The poor girl looked bewildered.

"Lohengrin zura?" she repeated. "You changed your name zura? And you don't remember me zura?"

Ahiru bent down to be at Uzura's eye level. "Fakir's hurt, Uzura," she said. "I know he'll be happy to see you when he feels better, but right now he thinks he's someone else. We're taking him to the doctor."

Uzura blinked in surprise. "Will the doctor make him remember zura?"

For a moment Ahiru could not reply. But then she put on a brave smile. "I hope so," she said.

"We're wasting time," Fakir growled. "I'm going on without you." And he was making good on his vow; he was already a fourth of a block ahead.

Autor narrowed his eyes. "Wait for us!" he said. Looking to Ahiru he said, "You can continue your visit while we walk. He's not going to stop."

Ahiru glowered in Fakir's direction. "Now he's acting like even more of a jerk than when we first met!" she muttered.

"Just remember that this time he can't help it," Autor replied. "He was acting relatively normal before he collapsed." He gave chase, catching up to Fakir moments later.

Ahiru let out a sad sigh. "I don't know which is worse," she said to herself.

This was something she never thought would happen—Fakir just forgetting everything. Even when hardly anyone in Kinkan had remembered being in Drosselmeyer's Story, Fakir had. And he had kept his promise of always standing by her side. But today, in such a strange and abrupt moment, all of that had been taken away. Fakir's eyes had been filled with warmth. Now they were cold and unfeeling. And no one could understand why.

"Ahiru." Uzura tugged on the edge of her skirt.

Ahiru started back to the present. Trying to again put on a smile she said, "What is it, Uzura?"

"Do you feel sad about Fakir zura?" Uzura looked sad again herself.

Ahiru's smile wavered. "Yeah," she said. "A lot."

"He'll be okay zura!" Uzura said. "Autor is okay. Fakir will be okay too!"

Ahiru looked at her in surprise. "I didn't think of it like that," she said. "But you're right, Uzura—Autor is okay. We have to believe in Fakir."

Uzura nodded. "He'll come back and everything will be lovey-dovey zura!" she exclaimed, beating on her drum.

Ahiru's braid nearly stood on end. "Let's catch up, Uzura!" she said, hoping no one had heard as she shepherded Uzura towards the boys.

xxxx

Doctor Johann Himmelreich had encountered many strange cases in his years as a practicing physician. He had not thought he would be surprised in his late age, but today was certainly going to test that idea, starting with the unscheduled opening of his office door.

"Dr. Himmelreich?"

He gave a start, looking up from the folder of the patient he had just seen. "Yes?" He blinked in surprise at the teenage boy slipping into his office. "Are you the next patient?"

"No," answered the boy. "I'm his friend. Doctor, I need to speak to you before you see the patient."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes. There's a strange situation concerning his injuries."

"I see." Dr. Himmelreich set the folder on his desk. "Do sit down. And where possible, I do like to know to whom I am speaking."

"I'm Autor," was the reply. The boy crossed to a chair and sat, facing the physician. "My friend is Fakir—only at the moment he thinks he's Lohengrin, the Swan Knight of legend."

The good doctor frowned. "I see. And how long has this been the case?"

"For close to an hour now," Autor said. "He told me he's been having a pain in his heart off and on today and last night. Then he collapsed. When he woke up, he remembered nothing of his true life and started insisting he was Lohengrin."

Dr. Himmelreich reached for a pad and pen, quickly scribbling notes. "Has anything of the kind ever happened before?" he wanted to know.

"No," Autor said. "But I wanted you to keep this in mind when you're examining him, so you won't think he's crazy. And I also wondered if you had any idea what could have caused it."

"I would have to see him before I could attempt to judge that," was the reply. "But in any case, I'm not really qualified to make a diagnosis on a mental malady. And I have never heard of a case where a patient took on a new identity after problems with his heart. Has there been anything else recently that has greatly upset him?"

Autor hesitated. The dream had disturbed Fakir immensely, but should he mention it? Maybe not the contents, but the basic idea, perhaps.

"He had a dream last night that disturbed him," he said. "His heart first started hurting when he woke up."

"Do you know the nature of this dream?"

"He was killed," Autor said. "An unsettling dream for anyone, but he has actually feared death, which makes it all the worse." He pushed up his glasses with his middle finger.

The physician gave a thoughtful nod, continuing to write. "Indeed," he mused. "And we may be getting somewhere. An intense emotional trauma can sometimes cause the mind to repel everything it knows about its identity. Does he associate his heart hurting with this dream?"

"I don't know," Autor said. He leaned forward. "But as long as he's in this state, he might try to do dangerous things. He refuses to listen when we try to tell him who he really is."

"Does he seem to be physically well other than this new problem with his heart?" Dr. Himmelreich queried.

"Yes," Autor said. "If you were just observing him from a distance, you wouldn't know anything was wrong."

"And where is he now?"

Autor glanced over his shoulder. "He's in the waiting room, being distracted by another friend and a little girl with a drum," he said. "Or he was." He frowned. If Fakir really noticed that Autor had still not returned, what would he think of it? Would he suspect Autor was talking to the doctor or would that not even cross his mind in his state?

"I would like to see him now," Dr. Himmelreich said. "Afterwards, I will talk with you more. I may need to see this other friend as well."

"That's fine." Autor stood. "I'll go get Fakir."

When he entered the waiting room, he found a near-disaster. Fakir was standing near the door, his hands on his hips. He was insisting he was going to leave, while Ahiru was pleading that he had to stay and Uzura was rapidly pounding on her drum, exclaiming that the doctor would help Fakir remember and then his heart could be lovey-dovey again.

"The doctor wants to see you now," Autor said, forced to speak loud enough to be heard over Uzura's head-splitting noise.

Fakir looked to him, his eyes narrowed. "What were you doing with him?" he said, walking across the floor to the door from which Autor had just emerged.

"I was just telling him what I knew about your heart hurting," Autor answered. "I thought he should know before he examined you."

Giving Autor a look of cold distrust, Fakir went through the heavy door and let it shut behind him.

Ahiru's shoulders slumped. "Thank goodness," she said. Straightening up she exclaimed, "What took you so long, Autor? Fakir really would have left if you hadn't came!"

"It took longer to explain than I thought," Autor said.

"What did the doctor say zura?" Uzura asked, finally ceasing her banging and looking up at Autor with wide eyes.

"There's not much he could say without examining Fakir first," Autor said, crossing his arms. Looking to Ahiru he added in a lower tone, "But he did wonder if this could have been caused by an emotionally traumatic incident."

Ahiru gave him a blank look. "Emotional what?"

Autor could not refrain from a long sigh. "Something that highly upset him," he said.

Ahiru's eyes widened. "But what would that have been?" she cried. "Everything's been peaceful lately. You got better and Mytho and Rue can visit us and . . ."

"I haven't had the chance to tell you what Fakir told me before he collapsed." Autor glanced to the chairs behind them. "Maybe you should sit down first. It will take a while."

Trembling, Ahiru lowered her slim body into the chair. Autor sat next to her. Uzura stared at them both, further confused. As Autor began to speak, Uzura climbed into the chair on his other side in order to hear him better.

Ahiru listened and exclaimed in horror as Autor related all that he knew. He did not hold back, feeling that Ahiru deserved to know everything in light of what was happening. He told of Fakir's dream and their own theories on what it might mean, as well as every other part of their conversation up to the point when Fakir had swooned. He also gave a brief explanation of Lohengrin's identity. At the conclusion, Ahiru was far more of a basket case than before, which Autor had known would happen.

"So one of Fakir's Stories could have done this?" she cried, as she had already done in the middle of the tale. "Which one? And why?" She wrung her hands. Since Autor had mentioned the possibility, a terrible thought had started taking hold of her mind. Now, no matter how she tried, she could not shake its talons. She looked at Autor, the agony obvious in her wide eyes. "Oh Autor, what if . . . what if it's the Story Fakir wrote to make me human again?" She shook her head. "That's the only one he's written other than the ending to Drosselmeyer's Story."

Autor reached out, taking hold of her shoulders. "There's no evidence pointing to one or the other," he said. "It might not even be one of his Stories at all. That's only a possibility."

"But what if it's the truth?" Ahiru persisted. "How would we fix it?" And what if it was the Story Fakir had written for her? Could they only save Fakir by Ahiru returning to being a duck? Even if so, how would they go about it? The only other person who could write reality-bending Stories was Autor, albeit he wrote in a different medium than Fakir. Fakir had not been able to counter Autor's Story in the past; it was unlikely Autor could counter Fakir's. And ever since Autor's fall into the darkness, he had been too afraid to even try to use his powers.

Autor sighed, releasing Ahiru from his grasp. "I don't know," he admitted.

Uzura leaned over, clutching the chair arm in her small hands. "One of Fakir's Stories is hurting him zura?" she said. Her voice caught. "Will he hurt himself like you hurt yourself zura?"

Autor froze. He turned to face the worried, inquisitive child, at a loss for words. It was obvious from Uzura's deep blue eyes that Autor's sacrifice still affected and pained her a great deal. That was something Autor had not expected. They had never even associated that much, though Uzura had shown an odd interest in him for reasons he could not hope to explain, let alone understand.

"I don't think so," he said at last. "Fakir's Story—if it's hurting him at all—is hurting him in a different way than my Story hurt me. He wouldn't have any reason to end his life to stop its force. Anyway, since Fakir's Stories have already concluded, him dying wouldn't serve any purpose." He left the rest of his thought hanging unspoken in the air, though both he and Ahiru could hear it clearly.

_If Fakir thought he was Lohengrin, then somehow, in some way, he could follow the fate of Mytho's knight from Drosselmeyer's Story._

Uzura climbed over the chairs' arms and into Autor's lap, much to his utter shock. "I don't want him to get hurt zura," she said sadly. "I wanted to help you, but I couldn't get away zura."

Autor stared at her, again stunned speechless. But Uzura did not seem to expect an answer. She snuggled against him, hugging him with her small arms. Before long she seemed to have dozed.

Ahiru managed a smile. "That's really cute," she said.

Autor looked overwhelmed. "I don't know why she likes me," he said. "I've never done anything that should have endeared me to her."

Ahiru shrugged. "Uzura can actually be pretty perceptive sometimes," she said. "And I guess she knows you're a good guy."

"I don't even know how to talk to her," Autor said. "I'm terrible with children."

"She doesn't seem to mind," Ahiru said.

Any further conversation was halted as the door opened and the nurse looked out at them. "Dr. Himmelreich would like to see both of you in his office now," she said.

Ahiru blinked, but only took a span of several seconds to process the information before she leaped to her feet. "Does he have any news about Fakir?" she exclaimed.

"You'll have to ask him," the nurse said.

Autor looked to Ahiru, his eyes showing he felt trapped. "What do I do with . . . ?" He glanced down at the sleeping Uzura.

"Just pick her up and bring her along!" Ahiru said, hurrying to the door as she spoke.

Autor flushed. Slowly he got to his feet, pulling Uzura into his arms as he went. Feeling ridiculous and uncomfortable, and certain he was doing it wrong, he followed Ahiru through the door, down the hall, and back to the physician's office.

Dr. Himmelreich raised an eyebrow as Autor entered holding the child, but he made no comment. Not that he had a chance, as Ahiru immediately spoke when they got inside.

"Well?" she demanded. "How's Fakir? Did you find out what's wrong? Where is he?"

The older man held up his hands for silence. "Just one question at a time, please," he said.

Now Ahiru flushed. Autor shifted his weight, both hoping Uzura would wake up and hoping she would not. The last thing they needed was for her to make a scene in the doctor's office.

"Here's the puzzling thing," Dr. Himmelreich said. "We can't find anything physically wrong with the boy. Of course, we should do some more complex tests before we make a definite analysis, considering the heart pain you mentioned." He glanced to Autor.

"What about his belief that he's the knight Lohengrin?" Autor asked.

"Ah yes." The physician shook his head. "After talking with him during the examination, I can certainly see what you meant. He fully believes himself to be this knight. And as I said, I'm afraid I'm not qualified to help handle that problem. You'll need to set up an appointment with one of the psychologists."

Ahiru bit her lip. "Do you know what he might do to try to help Fakir remember?" she wanted to know.

Dr. Himmelreich hesitated. "Well," he said at last, "you can't consider this an official diagnosis, coming from me, but it looks to me as though your friend is suffering from disassociative amnesia or disassociative fugue."

Ahiru stared at him in confusion. "Fugue?" she repeated. It sounded like a kind of food.

"Yes." Dr. Himmelreich stood and crossed to his bookcase. Removing a heavy volume, he opened it and began to leaf through the pages. "It's basically as I told young Autor here. Both conditions are similar; they're caused by intense emotional trauma. When something happens to the patient that's too distressing to process or handle, the way his or her mind tries to cope is by blocking all memories and starting anew."

Autor frowned. As afraid as Fakir had been, and might still be, of death, somehow Autor could not picture this as being the explanation for the sudden change in Fakir's personality. As far as he was concerned, the Story still seemed the most likely candidate. But that was not something they could tell the doctor. They would all be sent to the psychologist.

"What is the usual treatment for these states?" he queried.

Finding the section he wanted, Dr. Himmelreich skimmed over it before looking up from the tome. "It all really depends on the individual," he said. "Among the possible treatments are certain drugs given during interviews and clinical hypnosis. The main goal is to keep the victim as comfortable as possible while trying to determine what caused this lapse into a fugue state. Once the culprit is discovered, the problem may be able to be reversed.

"Of course, on the other hand, fugue states rarely last longer than several days," he continued. "If you want to wait a while and see if he will come out of it on his own. . . ."

"Could he relapse?" Autor said.

"If the cause isn't found, that's possible too," Dr. Himmelreich said. "And once one is out of a fugue state, he or she rarely remembers what was said and done during it. It becomes a blank period in their lives."

He sighed, setting the open book on his desk. "I don't know that it would be wise for you to simply wait for him to emerge from the fugue state, however. When I spoke with him, he was very insistent on leaving as soon as possible. And as long as he believes himself to be this Lohengrin, a fearless knight, there is a high chance he may do something dangerous—even life-threatening."

Ahiru swallowed hard, looking ill.

Autor just nodded. "We're aware of that," he said, his tone slightly cool.

Ahiru ran her tongue over her lips. "So . . . you think we should get this appointment and then have him treated for this fu-fug . . ." She made a face. "Memory thing?"

"That would definitely be my recommendation," Dr. Himmelreich said. "I don't think drug-induced interviews would be prescribed in his case, at least as long as we don't know what caused the pain in his heart. But the psychologist might try to get him to agree to be put under hypnosis."

"He would never agree to that," Autor said.

Suddenly he stiffened. They were being spied on and listened to; he could feel a gaze boring into his back. He whirled without warning, just in time to see a green eye vanish from a crack in the door.

"Fakir," he uttered.

In the next moment something crashed and a nurse screamed. "Stop him!" she cried. "He's not well enough to be out. He's getting away!"

Ahiru gasped in horror. "Fakir!" she wailed. Running to the door, she flung it open and tore down the hall after the fleeing patient.

Both Autor and Dr. Himmelreich winced as the door banged into the doorstop and flew forward again, the force of Ahiru's throw sending it slamming shut. Autor ran to it in the next instant, pulling it open as well and chasing after Ahiru.

Uzura stirred in his arms. "What's happening zura?" she asked, now wide awake from the banging of the door.

"Fakir's running away," Autor told her, leaping over a fallen cart with more agility than he thought he had. "We have to catch him."

"Oh!" Uzura exclaimed, leaning forward in Autor's arms. "So it's a game zura!"

"It's not a game at all!" Autor retorted, fleeing around one corner, then another. "This is serious."

The sudden chill air that hit him in the face made his heart drop. The back door was standing open in the late autumn evening. Fakir had already taken flight from the building. And from Ahiru's frantic calling and running over the grounds, he was nowhere to be found.

He set Uzura down in the corridor. "Wait here," he ordered. "Don't leave until one of us comes back."

With that he dashed after Ahiru, though now he had little hope.

Fakir would never let himself be found if he could help it.


	3. Decisions

**Notes: Yes! I have completed this chapter. It was being stubborn for a while. Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long. Thanks to everyone who has provided plot help for the story thus far!**

**Chapter Three**

Fakir waited until the calls and the footsteps had faded. Then, cautiously, he eased open the door of the supply closet and peered into the hall. As he had hoped, it was empty. He slipped out, silently pushing the door shut behind him.

Neither of his supposed friends had even considered that he might trick them into thinking he had left the building. But he would have to be fast anyway; the boy seemed quick on the draw. And the child had been left behind, he knew, so he would have to be careful not to encounter her as he departed the hospital for real.

A frown crossed his features while he turned, making his way down the hallway opposite to that which his pursuers had taken. Had it been right of him to make fools of them in such a way? They were insistent that he was this other person, this friend of theirs. But he had no proof other than their words. As far as he knew, this was exactly what he had originally thought—a conspiracy against him. And when they had been making plans with that physician to have him stay for some sort of treatment, his distrust of them had plunged even deeper.

No, they were certainly not his friends, as they claimed. They were his enemies, trying to get into his good graces and failing miserably. He would not be taken in by their falsehoods.

Someone was coming from the other side of the corridor. There was no telling if they would know who he was or try to stop him. He turned, looking for a hiding place. The only available door looked like another doctor's office. He would have to hope the room was empty. Grasping the knob, he turned it and crept inside.

He was in luck; all was in darkness. He shut the door, pressing himself against it as he tried to listen to the low voices in the hall.

"This is bad. Where could he have gone? We still needed to run those other tests on his heart."

His eyes narrowed. They were discussing him.

"Surely he can't be far," a second voice said. "But I wonder how he got out of the examination room in the first place in order to eavesdrop on that conversation."

_Because you people didn't do what you were supposed to and keep a closer watch on me,_ Fakir thought to himself. _Of course, that works out well for me. I didn't want to be forced to render any of you guiltless people unconscious._

Again he waited for the footsteps and voices to fade. But now what? This scenario could very well keep repeating if he could not find the exit soon.

Maybe he would have to continue his charade of hiding in plain sight. He did not like the thought of taking on a disguise, though now he was growing desperate. And if all went well, it would only be for a few minutes.

He moved away from the door, feeling his way into the room. At last running his hands over a lamp on a desk, he clicked it on.

Just as he had hoped, the doctor's coat was hanging on a coat tree in the corner. And the man even had a hat. All the better.

Fakir took both items down, sticking the hat on his head before drawing his arms into the sleeves. His lip curled in annoyance. The coat was really too big for him; the cuffs hung halfway over his hands and the edge was almost to his ankles. He would have to keep his hands in the pockets and hope that no one stopped to talk to him.

Pulling the brim of the hat low over his eyes, he turned off the lamp and went back to the door. Opening it quietly, he reentered the hall and resumed his journey.

"Good evening, Dr. Ackerman!"

He did not look up enough to see who was speaking; he merely glanced halfway over his shoulder as he gave a nod of acknowledgment. To his relief, the speaker continued down the corridor. But he stiffened as the next, muttered words reached his ears.

"Has he really lost that much weight? I had no idea."

Fakir clenched his teeth, willing himself not to walk faster until after he was around the succeeding corner.

He was close to the exit before the next incident happened.

"Dr. Ackerman! I need to talk to you."

He stiffened. "Can it wait? I'm in a rush tonight," he said, trying to keep his voice muffled.

"It's about your patient, sir. The one with the sleep disorder."

Fakir racked his mind for an appropriate answer, but found none. And his patience with this deception had worn thin. "Call me on my phone in five minutes," he ordered, hoping the good doctor had his phone with him yet not remembering that it would be turned off in a hospital.

But the nurse kept following him. "Doctor, I really need to talk to you here. You need to see the patient's chart. . . ."

And Fakir ran, his hat flying off his head as he all but flew to the automatic doors and dashed into the cold Kinkan night.

Behind him the nurse gasped. "You're not Dr. Ackerman!" she cried. "Wait! Stop!"

Fakir only ran faster. He had to get out of here.

And once he was safely away, he had to determine how to find the Prince. He had no idea how long he had been absent from his duties as the Prince's knight, but hopefully when he explained the bizarre circumstances he would be able to retain his post.

"Forgive my trickery, my Prince," he muttered, shrugging the purloined coat off of his shoulders as he disappeared into the shadows of the building and the night.

xxxx

Autor slowed to a halt as he emerged from the trees and back into the parking lot of the hospital. He reached up in frustration, adjusting his glasses. Fakir was nowhere to be found. And even though he knew Fakir would be crafty, it was still strange. How could he have fled that fast, without leaving any indication of his path?

A movement to his left caught his eye and he turned, seeing a nurse bend down to lift what looked like a doctor's coat off the ground. That was odd. And she seemed tense, too.

He frowned, walking over to her. "What happened?" he asked.

She jumped a mile before looking up at him. "I don't know!" she exclaimed. "I thought I was talking to Dr. Ackerman, but suddenly he ran out the door and I knew it wasn't him at all." She frowned. "He had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. He looked very young."

Autor froze, staring at her. "You're sure of this?" he demanded.

She looked at him in confusion. "Yes," she said. "Why? Do you know him?"

"I'm afraid so." Autor reached over, plucking a greenish-black strand of hair off the collar of the coat. Fakir had played them for fools, pretending to have fled when he had actually been still hiding in the building. Why had that possibility not even occurred to him?

"How long ago did this happen?" he asked.

"He just ran out," the nurse said. "He went that way, I think." She pointed towards the right.

Autor was running again before she had a chance to ask more.

The woman was correct that Fakir had just left; he could hear the other's shoes slapping on the ground. Or at least he _did;_ several blocks away, the sound abruptly stopped. Autor paused, glancing around with narrowed eyes. Had Fakir heard him and halted altogether? Or would Fakir silently creep the rest of the way he wanted to go? Autor advanced into the darkness, looking one way and then the other as he sought the confused boy.

Without warning a hand shot out of the shadows, taking hold of Autor's scarf and giving a harsh pull. Autor cried out in surprise as he was yanked to the side and shoved against the wall of a cold building.

"Stop following me," Fakir's voice, dark without recognition, growled.

Autor reached up, grabbing hold of Fakir's wrist. "Get hold of yourself," he shot back. "Even if you don't believe yourself to be Fakir, was it a very noble thing to leave the hospital and worry Ahiru? She's still looking for you."

He had hoped that the mention of Ahiru would stir something in Fakir's heart. But instead the green eyes only narrowed further. Fakir's visage was cold and unrelenting.

"You're both in this conspiracy," he said. "I heard what you were going to have done with me."

"You only heard part of the conversation!" Autor said. "The doctor was just telling us what the procedure was likely to be. Neither Ahiru or I actually agreed to have it done." His grip on Fakir's wrist tightened. Fakir had not released Autor's cravat and it was starting to press uncomfortably against his neck.

"That doesn't mean you wouldn't have," Fakir said. "You're trying to incapacitate me so I can't carry out my duties. Both of you are my enemies! I've been away from the Prince long enough, and I swore to protect him."

"And who is your Prince?" Autor returned, glaring at Fakir.

Now the other boy's eyes blazed. "You're from another kingdom!" he exclaimed. "You know the Prince's identity and you're attempting to get me to reveal his secrets." He slammed Autor against the wall. "I won't stand for it. If I had my sword I'd cut you down here and now."

Autor grimaced in pain. Now his back was on fire. "You act more like the wandering ghost knight than Lohengrin," he said.

Fakir's lip curled. "Your insults will not avail you," he said. "I will spare you for now, but remember that if we meet again you won't be so fortunate." With that he pulled Autor away from the wall, at the same time letting go of the scarf with such force that Autor crashed to his knees. Before he could recover, Fakir vanished into the darkness.

Autor gritted his teeth, glaring after Fakir. Where would he be going? If he was looking for Mytho, he could end up almost anywhere. But if he wanted to travel out of the town fast, he might use the railroad system.

Autor pulled himself to his feet, intending to give chase again and this time be more quiet about it. But before he could move, Ahiru's voice rang out of the darkness.

"Fakir! Autor! Are you here?"

Autor stepped out of the shadows, trying to ignore the wretched pain in his back. "I'm here," he said grimly. "Fakir just left."

"Then why aren't you going after him?" Ahiru exclaimed. "The nurse back there just told me what he did and that he ran by and you ran after him and . . ." But she trailed off, at last taking in Autor's frazzled appearance. "What happened?" she gasped.

"If I look unkempt, you can blame Fakir for it," Autor said, adjusting his glasses before pushing the ends of his cravat into his jacket.

Ahiru stared in alarm. "What did he do? Are you okay?" she demanded.

"He didn't do much, but he was fierce. And I'm fine." He looked to Ahiru. "He might go to the train station, but probably not before he looks around town for the Prince first."

"Prince? Does he mean Mytho?" Ahiru wondered. 

"I don't know," Autor said. "It's possible, especially if he knows that Lohengrin is thought by some to have been Prince Siegfried's unnamed knight."

Ahiru froze. "They do?" she said in surprise.

Ordinarily Autor would have given her an amused smirk right then. As it was, he was too concerned about the situation. "Yes," he said.

"We need to go after him right now!" Ahiru cried. But suddenly her eyes widened as something else occurred to her. "Uzura!" she burst out. "Where is she?"

Autor started, then frowned. "I left her at the hospital," he said.

"We have to go back for her!" Ahiru said, turning to do just that. "Maybe we can take her to the antique shop. Charon will be happy to see her again too."

Autor hesitated, debating the current state of things in his mind. Fakir was probably too far ahead to be followed now. And they really could not leave a small child at the hospital for Heaven knew how much longer. What if she wandered the halls pounding on her drum? _Horrors!_

"Alright," he consented. "We'll go back for Uzura. Then we'll look for Fakir."

Ahiru paused now. "You don't think he might remember the sword is back at Charon's, do you?" she said.

"I doubt it," Autor said. His eyes widened as a new thought came to him. "But he might go there anyway, if he hears about the antique shop or even passes it due to some strange coincidence. He wants a sword. He might think he could get one there."

Ahiru gasped. "You're right!" she said. "And if we hurry, maybe we can get there first! Come on, Autor!" She tore ahead, her braid flying out behind her like a banner.

Autor sighed as he watched. Then he forced himself to move faster, despite the pain in his back.

Ahiru did not notice he was not right behind her until she arrived back at the hospital doors. Once there she slowed to a halt, looking over her shoulder for him. When she saw he had fallen behind, and that he was walking as quickly as he could but not running, she stared in worry.

"Autor, you're hurt," she said. "Maybe one of the doctors should . . ."

"No!" he cut her off. "I'm alright. Go in and get Uzura. We can't waste any more time." He sank onto a bench near the entrance. "I'll wait here for you."

Ahiru looked at him, torn. He was right that they needed to hurry, especially if Fakir might go home. But in good conscience how could she not insist that he be examined? Autor would never lag so far behind if all was well, nor would he sit down instead of continuing the journey.

"Go!" Autor said sharply. "If I sit here a moment I'll be ready to go on."

Ahiru chewed on her lip. At last she nodded with a reluctant "Okay" and hurried inside.

Autor absently rubbed at his neck as he waited. He would be alright, he was sure. The abrupt assault had definitely hurt him, but it was no more than bruising on his back at the most. And possibly a soreness in his throat from his scarf being clutched so tight.

The doors opened again and Ahiru emerged, leading Uzura by the hand. When the child saw Autor she said, "What's wrong zura?"

Autor pushed himself off the bench. "Nothing," he said. "Let's go."

Ahiru still looked reluctant, but she agreed.

xxxx

Charon looked up from his workbench when the door opened. "Fakir?" he called. "Ahiru?" It was a relief to hear them back. After all, it was late, he had noted some time ago. And he had been concerned about those two. Knowing their luck, they could so easily become involved in another strange situation around town.

Even though Drosselmeyer's Story had ended, the bizarre events persisted. Kinkan obviously had a great deal of magic, Charon had often thought, to be the point of origin for the Story-Spinners and their oak tree. What other ancient secrets did the town hold, he wondered.

His eyes widened in surprise to see Ahiru, along with Autor and . . . Uzura? He stood, stunned. "Uzura?" he greeted. "You're back?"

She beamed. "I left the old man's world to come back zura!" she said, banging on her drum. Autor winced.

Ahiru tried to smile. "We're hoping she can stay for good now," she said.

Charon nodded. "Where's Fakir?" he asked.

Ahiru's smile faded. She looked to Autor, perhaps for strength, before turning to Charon again. "Um, it's a really long story," she said. "He thinks he's Lohengrin the knight and he doesn't trust us and he might come here looking for a sword if he sees this place and . . ."

"Wait a minute!" Charon interrupted. He stared at her, then Autor. "Fakir thinks he's Lohengrin?"

"Yes." Autor pushed up his glasses. "We're still trying to figure out how it happened. This afternoon he collapsed at my home after telling me about pains he had been having in his heart. When he woke up, he no longer recognized me or Ahiru and insisted he was Lohengrin."

"They took him to the doctor so his heart could get lovey-dovey again," Uzura said, "but it didn't work zura. He ran away zura."

"And you don't know where he is now?" Charon exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, we don't," Autor said. "We came here in case he would come for a sword. He's looking for his Prince. We don't know if he means Siegfried or not."

Charon sank back onto the bench, running his hands into his hair. "Tell me everything," he implored.

And they did, as quickly as they could. Charon listened in growing horror, his heart sinking. He had always feared for Fakir when the boy had insisted on taking the path of a knight. He had been afraid that Fakir would follow the path of Mytho's knight in Drosselmeyer's Story, torn in two by the Raven's merciless claws. The Raven was gone now, but there were plenty of other dangers. Charon had hoped and prayed that Fakir would continue to write instead, once Fakir had turned his attention to that method.

Of course, that road was not entirely safe, either. The Bookmen still waited and watched, ready to sever Fakir's hands if he showed any indication of becoming another Drosselmeyer. And bringing Stories into reality was a great strain; at times Fakir had become physically or emotionally ill because of it.

But Charon had never feared for his adopted son as he feared now. For Fakir to have again chosen the path of a knight, and without even remembering any of his true life, something grievous was sure to happen. From Ahiru and Autor's shared concern, they felt the same.

"Fakir will be okay, won't he zura?" Uzura frowned, looking to everyone in turn with wide, sad eyes. She easily felt the overhanging worry in the room, and it made her worry, too.

"Of course he will be, Uzura," Ahiru said, again fighting for a smile.

"We just don't know when," Autor muttered in addition.

But all of them stiffened as the door to the antique shop opened. Charon turned to look towards the other room, concern and dread in his eyes. Was that Fakir? The light was off in the shop, so he could not yet tell. Cautiously he stood, crossing to the doorway.

"Hello?" Fakir's voice, gruff and cold, called. "The door was unlocked, so I came in." He frowned, looking to Charon in the doorway. "I need a sword."

Charon stared at him, for a moment not even fully processing the words. Fakir's eyes were blank, just as Ahiru and Autor had said. He did not know any of them, not even the man who had raised him after his parents' tragic deaths. And he wanted . . . what? A sword? Oh, how different things were this time compared to the night so long ago when he had come for the Lohengrin Sword to protect Mytho!

"Well?" Fakir broke into his thoughts with impatience. "I have to be on my way. Can you help me or not?"

Charon stiffened. What should he even say? How could he give a sword to Fakir now, in his state? Yet if he refused, that was not likely to help the situation. Fakir would just get one somewhere else. If he had to have a sword, wouldn't it be better for him to take the one that had already served him well?

"My son," he whispered, at a complete loss.

Fakir froze, staring at him. "What did you say?" he demanded.

Now Charon realized what he had done. But he could no longer be silent. "You don't even recognize me, Fakir?" he said, taking several steps forward. "This home means nothing to you now?"

Fakir backed up, his eyes widening, then narrowing. For a split second, shock flitted through the green orbs, followed by fear.

"What is this?" he rasped. "What kind of alternate reality have I been thrown into?"

In the other room, Ahiru flinched. She could not stand to be here, listening to Fakir talk this way and being so lost without even realizing he was lost at all. She wanted to go to him, to help him remember and understand! "Fakir," she choked out, taking a step forward.

Autor grabbed her arm. "Wait a minute," he said. "He hasn't realized yet that we're here. And Charon seems to be having marginally more luck than we had." Which was, Autor assumed, partially because Fakir did not know Charon was connected with him and Ahiru. For them to appear on the scene could upset everything.

Ahiru looked up at him, the agony clear in her blue eyes. But, biting hard on her tongue, she stayed where she was.

Charon stepped closer to Fakir, who had backed into the counter. "It is I unfortunate enough to be in an alternate reality," he said, "where the boy I raised for so many years no longer knows me."

Fakir gripped the glass counter with his hands, visibly trembling. "That can't be true!" he cried. "I am the son of Percival. I've never seen you before in my life. Why does everyone in this town keep calling me by another name and insist they know me?"

His heart pounded in his ears. This was beginning to be too strange. Several people had noticed him on the way here and had called out greetings, addressing him as Fakir. Was everyone in town involved in a conspiracy against him, trying to make him believe he had gone mad?

Or, he suddenly realized, could there actually be a Fakir who belonged here, someone who looked so much like him that everyone believed him to be their friend . . . even their son?

Yes, that sounded logical. That would explain a great number of things, including the sincerity and pain he could see in this man's eyes. He was not being lied to now, and perhaps never had been. Guilt pricked his heart to think of how he had treated those others. He had even threatened one of them. And if all they had wanted was Fakir, and honestly thought he was that person, how could he as an honorable knight have nothing more to do with them? The real Fakir needed to be found.

Except . . . where was he? Since this seemed to be a case of mistaken identity, could he have been taken by Lohengrin's enemies, being mistaken for Lohengrin?

Fakir straightened, taking a deep breath as he regained his composure. Then he looked Charon in the eyes. "I regret that I am not your son," he said. "But now I understand what must be going on. My enemies have taken your son, thinking he is me. There isn't time to waste. I have to possess a sword now and go in search of these wicked knaves."

Charon stared again, at an absolute loss for words. "Fakir," he choked out. For him to be so completely convinced that he was Lohengrin, and that Fakir must be someone else entirely, could there ever possibly be any hope? What was he to do?

Ahiru was in horror as well. She whirled to look at Autor, desperate to find that he would have an answer to this alarming twist. But he frowned, staring into the shop with an unreadable expression.

"I wonder if the best thing would be to humor him for now," he said at last.

Ahiru clutched his arms so tightly that he grimaced in pain. "What?" she all but burst out. "But Autor, he's . . . !"

". . . Insistent on believing himself to be Lohengrin," Autor said. "There is no way we can convince him otherwise right now, and even if we could somehow persuade him to return to the hospital, I don't know that having him under some sort of psychiatric evaluation would help the problem at all.

"However." He looked Ahiru firmly in the eyes. "If we go along with this ruse for a while, he might let us come with him. And during the course of our travels, we may be able to get at the heart of this fugue state and bring Fakir back." He pried Ahiru's hands away, holding them within his own. "Listen to me! The most important thing is to gain his trust and be with him. This is likely the only way we can do that for the time being."

Ahiru's eyes filled with tears. "But . . . he's not Lohengrin!" she said. "What if he tries to do something dangerous?"

Autor let out a deep sigh. "Then we'll do everything we can to talk him out of it," he said.

Ahiru pulled her hands away from him. "I don't like the idea of lying to Fakir," she said, whirling away and crossing her arms over her chest.

"It's not outright lying," Autor said in frustration to her back. "It's just agreeing with him and mostly going along with his mindset."

He was met with silence. Uzura, who had allowed them the luxury of a conversation without her childish commentary, stared at him with questions in her eyes and all over her face. He looked away, impatiently adjusting his wandering glasses. They always seemed to slip down more often when he was agitated.

"Ahiru." He spoke again, his voice quieter. "It's the lesser of evils. Our choices are clear—humor Fakir and have a chance of being with him on whatever mad excursion he comes up with, or continue to insist we know he's not Lohengrin and isolate ourselves from him for Heaven knows how long." He hesitated. "Without us, there's a far greater chance that he'll die."

Ahiru stiffened. Those words had pierced her heart. She turned back, anguish and worry and conflict in her eyes. For a moment she searched Autor's gaze in silence before at last giving a weak, resigned nod.

"Okay," she said, her voice barely audible.

She had agreed not a moment too soon. In the shop, Charon had weighed every possibility against the knowledge he had of the day's events and had come to the conclusion that Ahiru and Autor, who had been directly involved in many of the most dire of Fakir's predicaments, would know best what to do.

"I should tell you," he said to the boy as they walked through the shop. "I know the people you were with earlier today. All they want, and all I want," and here he spoke with all the truth and sincerity he possessed, "is to have Fakir back."

Fakir stopped and looked to him, searching his eyes. "Then I'll do everything in my power to grant that wish," he said.

He looked to the other room. "Are they in there?" he asked.

Charon nodded. "Yes."

Fakir walked to the end of the shop and stood in the doorway leading to the other room. Ahiru and Autor and Uzura all looked up, having been engaged in some sort of conversation. Exhaling deeply, Fakir entered the room.

"I want to apologize for how I treated all of you," he said, looking to each of the three in turn. "I've come to realize that you likely aren't lying about this Fakir. Unfortunately, he isn't me. But I want to help you find him."

Ahiru's heart shattered as she stared at Fakir and at a stranger at the same time. But at last she took a step forward, trying so hard to smile.

"Thank you," she said. "We . . . we'd like that. We'd like it a whole lot."

And then she had to clamp her mouth shut before she cried out his name in agony.


	4. A New Plan

**Notes: Again, I am truly sorry about the damage done to my stories (including the previous chapters here) due to the sudden disallowing of scene dividers. I am trying something new on the suggestion of First Silvera, as I simply do not like how the provided horizontal lines increase my word count!**

**Chapter Four**

Fakir soon determined his next course of action. The first thing that should be done was to locate his Prince, who could tell him of anything he knew concerning their enemies. Then they could plan how to track them down and rescue their hostage.

"We have to make haste," he frowned. "If they think your friend is me, it won't be long before they'll start torturing him for information." He was sitting at the kitchen table with the others, his hands clasped on the wood and his eyes narrowed in seriousness.

Ahiru looked down, fighting back the urge to retort. She could not follow Autor's plan of humoring Fakir. She knew she could not. And at the same time, she knew he had made a valid point. If they kept telling Fakir he was not Lohengrin, he was not likely to let them come with him on this trek. And they needed to be right with him, to be at least somewhat trusted by him, in order to help him as best as they could. Yet, if they could not even get him to realize he was Fakir, what could they really do to restore his memories?

"We know a prince."

Ahiru slowly brought her head up as Autor spoke. He was watching Fakir carefully for his reaction.

"I don't know if he's your prince or not," Autor continued. "His name is Siegfried."

Fakir's eyes widened. "Yes," he said. "My prince's name is Siegfried. He's around our age."

Autor nodded. "Then we know how to find him," he said.

Ahiru stared as Autor took out a piece of paper and began sketching a map of Germany, pointing out locations and distances as he worked. Mytho had told them how to get to his and Rue's kingdom, but she had not processed the directions well. And from what Autor was saying, it looked like it was a long way from Kinkan.

Nevertheless, she felt a bit more hope now. Surely Mytho could help Fakir, if no one else could! She looked to Charon and Uzura, her eyes shining.

Charon could not help but feel hopeful himself. Since Fakir believed himself to be Mytho's knight, Mytho might be able to convince him of his true identity. It was certainly a possibility that could not be ignored.

"The easier way to get there would be by train," Autor concluded.

Fakir gave a thoughtful nod. "Then we should go," he said.

Uzura stared. "We're going to see Mytho zura?" she said. "Is he still lovey-dovey with Rue zura?"

Autor flinched. Charon quickly interjected, "Now, none of that, Uzura."

He looked to Fakir. "We should pack some belongings and supplies and leave quickly," he said. "The trip will take several days."

Ahiru blinked. "You're coming, Charon?" she said. Of course she knew Charon would want to come, but she had thought he would need to stay behind with the shop.

However, he gave a firm nod. "I'll close the store for a few days," he said. "I'm not going to stay here and wait while all of this goes on around me. I'm going to get my son back." He looked to Fakir as he spoke.

As expected, Fakir did not understand the real meaning of Charon's words. He just nodded. "We'll ready ourselves and go," he said. To Autor he asked, "How long do you think it will take to reach Siegfried's kingdom?"

"I couldn't say for sure without seeing the train's schedule," Autor said. "I'll call them and ask when I go home to pack. Hopefully I'll be able to reserve places for us on the next departure."

Uzura banged on her drum. "We're going on a trip zura!" she exclaimed. She looked to Ahiru. "Will this make Fakir's heart lovey-dovey again zura?"

Ahiru managed a weak smile. "I hope so," she said.

Charon hesitated. "I'll take you upstairs to your . . . Fakir's room," he said to Fakir as he got to his feet.

"True," Fakir said. "I should pack some things for Fakir for when we find him."

Charon could not bring himself to say more than a quiet "Yes" as he led Fakir up the wooden steps.

Ahiru's shoulders slumped once they were out of hearing range. "I can't do this," she said, her voice cracking. "Autor, I just can't."

"You have to," Autor retorted. "It's the only way we're going to get anywhere." He stood and walked over to her. "We'll do all we can to try to encourage Fakir's memories to awaken without directly telling him he's Fakir. And maybe when we reach Mytho's kingdom, he might be able to help us."

Ahiru looked up at her friend, forlorn. "How can we do anything to help Fakir if we're not telling him he _is_ Fakir?" she said.

Autor sat next to her. "Tell him about some of the things you've experienced with him," he said. "But instead of saying 'you and I' say 'Fakir and I'. Don't indicate that he himself is the one you're speaking about." His voice lowered. "Maybe something in what you're saying will eventually break through to him and he'll start to remember that he is the one.

"Anyway, Ahiru . . . the way he is now, can you really say he is Fakir?"

Ahiru frowned. "Of course he's Fakir," she said defensively. "What are you talking about?"

"It's like talking to a stranger, isn't it?" Autor said.

Ahiru lowered her gaze. "Well . . . yeah. . . ."

"Then if you think of it like that, maybe it will make it easier," Autor said. "The Fakir we know is a separate identity from this Lohengrin."

"I guess," Ahiru said. "But . . ." She looked up at him again. "Isn't Fakir supposed to be Mytho's knight reborn?"

Autor looked surprised. "That's what we've been led to believe, yes," he said.

"Then . . ." Ahiru wrung her hands in her lap. "Isn't some part of him really Lohengrin, or whoever Mytho's knight really was?"

Autor frowned. "That's a difficult question," he admitted. "I'm not sure we can find the answer. Potentially, Fakir could literally be the knight's spirit in a new body. But on the other hand, if Fakir only was made to play the role of the knight in Drosselmeyer's living Story, he himself might not necessarily be the knight."

Ahiru glared at the floor. It was too complicated! Why did everything have to be so confusing? Why couldn't they just tell Fakir who he was and he would remember? Why did he have to think so strongly that he was Lohengrin? And if one of his Stories had done this, which one and why?

Again her worries resurfaced. What if it really was the Story he had written for her? What would they really do?

She looked away. She had wanted to be human again, but not if it would hurt Fakir like this. Yet on the other hand, it would also hurt Fakir if he came back to himself and found that she was again a duck, transformed back to undo the Story and save him.

Though there was no way that could happen anyway. Autor would not be able to write against Fakir's Story.

And what if it was Fakir's other Story, the ending to Drosselmeyer's? What would be the solution then?

She could not think. Instead she looked at Autor, who was moving to stand and leave. His expression was a mask that his glasses only accentuated. Impulsively she stood and reached for him, grabbing the cuff of his jacket sleeve. "Autor . . ."

He stopped and looked at her. "What is it?"

Ahiru's eyes and voice were plaintive. "You're hurting too, aren't you? About Fakir?"

Again Autor looked surprised. Part of him was tempted to make a quick reply and be done with it. He really needed to go; it would take him a while to walk home and call the train station and then to decide what he wanted to take on the trip. Not to mention that this was an awkward, uncomfortable subject.

But Ahiru's sorrowful face stopped him. Normally she was so cheery and happy. Seeing her like this was painful.

"A while back, I might have told you that it really didn't have anything to do with me," he said. She stiffened and he sighed. "But it isn't true.

"Yes," he admitted then, "I'm hurting. And even if Fakir didn't mean anything to me personally, I wouldn't want you to suffer." He hesitated and scowled. "I wouldn't want him to suffer, either."

She looked at him. "You like Fakir, don't you?" she said.

". . . He still irritates me at times," Autor said. "He would say the same about me. But . . . I told the doctor today that I'm Fakir's friend. I meant it." He looked Ahiru in the eyes. "This problem _does_ have to do with me, because of that. And because I'm your friend, as well.

He laid his hands on her shoulders. "I know what I suggested we do is painful and it feels wrong. But it's what I think is best for the time being. You understand that, don't you?"

Ahiru weakly nodded.

"Good." Autor moved to draw back. "I have to go. I'll be back when I have information on what time we can leave."

To his surprise, Ahiru moved closer and hugged him. "Autor . . . thank you," she said softly.

For a moment he was too stunned to reply. Then recovering, he said, "We both want to help Fakir. There's no need to thank me."

"Yeah . . . but I'm really glad I'm not in this alone," Ahiru said as she pulled back.

A sharp _rat-a-tat_ on the drum gave them both a start. "Are you two lovey-dovey zura?" Uzura demanded.

Ahiru looked at her in shock. Autor was just annoyed. "Where on earth did you pick up this obsession?" he retorted. "And for your information, no, we are not." He pushed up his glasses.

Ahiru gave a firm nod. "We're friends, Uzura," she said.

"Ohh. Friends are different from lovey-dovey zura?" Uzura blinked in all innocence.

"Yes." Autor crossed to the door. "I'll try to be back within the hour," he told Ahiru. "There should be a late-night train we can leave on, so try to be ready by then."

Ahiru nodded. "Okay," she said.

With that Autor stepped outside and into the cold night air. He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he began the walk home.

Who would have ever believed that he would make friends with Drosselmeyer's direct heir, someone who had the position Autor had longed to hold? He had never considered it would happen, and he was certain Fakir had not. Though they had met as children and had formed some sort of companionship, Fakir had long ago forgotten it, just as Autor had been sure would happen.

They were certainly strange friends, to be sure. Neither had ever admitted it aloud to the other. They disagreed on almost everything. And as Autor had told Ahiru, they still became irritated with each other.

But when Fakir was in trouble, he went to Autor anyway, in spite of all of that.

Autor slowed to a stop. Those children that had betrayed him years ago had always wanted use of his knowledge. That was all he was good for, they had told him.

He frowned. Fakir was not like that. Besides, there were plenty of times when Fakir went to him for other reasons, not just because he needed help.

Autor shuddered in the chill. Fakir had been stricken when Autor had died to save them from his out-of-control Story. The anguish Autor had seen in his eyes when he had tried in vain to write Autor back to life could never have been faked. And though Autor had been doubtful as to whether Fakir had been distraught due to not being able to protect someone in general or because of his feelings towards Autor personally, Autor was certain he had later learned the truth.

As strange as it was, Fakir cared about Autor a great deal.

Stranger still, Autor reciprocated.

And Ahiru. . . .

Autor resumed walking. Was Fakir completely blind? Did he really not see that Ahiru was no longer in love with the Prince? Ahiru's affections had turned to Fakir long ago, though Ahiru herself had not known at first. Autor had been the one to notice. But for whatever reason, Ahiru had said nothing.

Fakir had never spoken of his love for her, either, likely because he did indeed think that she still pined for Mytho. Or perhaps because he was just embarrassed and awkward. Well, Autor had watched Rue in silence for years without confessing his love, but that was because he had known he would never have a chance with her, which had turned out to be true. On the other hand, if Fakir honestly thought Ahiru could never fall in love with him, he was hopeless.

But nevermind such thoughts. Right now the most important thing was to get Fakir to remember in the first place. Once he did, then they could worry about confessing love.

Not that Autor planned to involve himself in that. If they wanted to keep dragging it out, that was their problem. He was not a match-maker.

xxxx

Ahiru sighed as she surveyed her cozy room. She did not have that many belongings, so she would not have much trouble determining what to pack. There was an old suitcase of Raetsel's that had been left in the room, so she could use that. Pulling it out, she opened it on her bed and crossed to the closet.

Her thoughts wandered far away as she selected her casual clothes as well as a couple of dresses. Fakir was just down the hall with Charon. Or his body was. Autor was right—this Fakir was a stranger. He believed he was packing clothes for when they found "Fakir", not having any concept that he was that person.

She clutched a light-blue dress in her hands. The real Fakir had to still be there too, didn't he? He couldn't just be _gone._ They had to be able to get through to him, just like with Mytho and Autor.

But with both of them, their true selves had never stopped trying to break free of the darkness. Any time they had resurfaced it had increased the hopes of those fighting for them. With Fakir, however, there had not been any sign of any other self. If it was not that Autor had been right with him at the time of his collapse, Ahiru might believe that Fakir actually did have a double called Lohengrin.

"It's only been a few hours," she realized as she folded the dress and laid it in the suitcase, "but it feels so much longer." She gave a sad sigh, blankly staring at the contents of the valise while leaning on the open lid.

"Ahiru?"

She started and turned at the young voice. "Oh! Uzura," she said, trying to smile.

"Can I help you get ready zura?" the puppet asked, coming into the room.

"Thank you, Uzura, but I think I have almost everything," Ahiru said. Going to the dresser, she opened a drawer and removed several items of underclothing.

Uzura stood on tiptoe to peer inside. "Do you need these zura?" she asked, grabbing up two pairs of socks in her small fists.

Ahiru nodded. "Bring them over here," she said, walking back to the suitcase on the bed.

Uzura climbed onto the mattress before reaching to place the socks in with the other clothes. "There zura!" she said.

"Thank you, Uzura," Ahiru said. Her smile was genuine now. "You're a big help."

Uzura beamed but then looked sad. "I didn't think things would be like this when I got back zura," she said. "I thought everything would be okay zura."

Ahiru sat down on the bed next to her. "I didn't ever think this would happen either, Uzura," she said, unable to help the sorrow in her own voice. She reached over, drawing the little girl close. "But we have to have faith in Fakir, okay? And we can't ever give up on trying to help him remember."

Uzura nodded. "Okay zura!" she said, snuggling with Ahiru. "Are you going to do what Autor said zura?"

Ahiru froze. What really was she going to do? She did not like the concept one bit, even though she had seen the logic in Autor's argument. It would break her heart to go along with it, but what if that really was the only choice right now?

Oh, why couldn't she become Tutu whenever she wanted? Why hadn't they been able to figure out why it had happened in the first place after the end of Drosselmeyer's Story? If she could be Tutu and get Fakir to dance with her, maybe she would be able to get at the heart of his problem and help him solve it. She had tried to will herself to become Tutu, but to no avail.

"I think for right now we'll have to," she said at last, "so Fakir won't get mad and he'll let us come with him."

Uzura frowned. "So we have to call him Lohengrin and not Fakir zura?"

Ahiru looked down. "I guess we will," she said.

"That feels weird zura," Uzura objected.

Ahiru nodded. "I know," she said. "But it . . . it's for the best." She choked on the words.

"You don't want to do it zura," Uzura said.

"No," Ahiru admitted. "If it'll help Fakir, though, I'll do it anyway."

"Fakir will be okay zura," Uzura said.

Ahiru smiled a bit. "You're right, Uzura," she said. Right now they had to focus on the hope that they would be able to get Fakir safely to Mytho's kingdom and that Mytho would know what to do. If he didn't . . . then what?

She got up from the bed, forcing the thought from her mind. "Come on, let's finish packing. We want to be ready when Autor comes back."

"Okay zura!" Uzura chirped, hopping to the floor.

xxxx

Charon's heart was painfully twisting as he watched Fakir roam the attic room, examining the shelves of books with curiosity and asking advice on what clothes he should pack. Charon responded, pointing out the things Fakir would particularly want if he was aware of who he was.

No, the torn clothes should be taken, he said when the inquiry was made on whether to just get rid of them. Fakir would want them perhaps more than most else. Charon had never really understood the attraction to worn and ratty clothing, but Fakir had always felt quite comfortable in the shirt with the mismatched sleeves.

He sighed, stepping back as he watched the boy place the garments in the suitcase. How many parents had dealt with such a thing—their child forgetting his identity and viewing everyone he had loved as strangers? If Mytho had not come to this world, and had lost his heart in the world of the original story instead, would he have remembered his own parents? He had seemed to forget everything about his past when he had used the forbidden spell to lock the Raven away.

And speaking of stories. . . . Was it at all possible that what Autor suspected was true? Could Fakir's own Story have actually came to life and done this to him? Considering what Autor's Story had caused before, it could not be rejected as a possibility. But how on earth would they fight against a Story that had become sentient? They had been helpless against Autor's madness and subsequent possession by his Story. In the end, only Autor himself had been able to end the horror—and at a price that could have been irreversible.

Charon's eyes widened. What if Fakir's Story had possessed him? What if the person he was speaking to actually was not Fakir, but just the part of him he had placed into his Story to bring it to life?

The man frowned. Somehow, he did not believe that. He had the feeling that this truly was all of Fakir—a Fakir with his memories erased and replaced. The Story was not in his body; it had done its damage from afar and was probably watching in glee at what it had caused.

Still . . . had Fakir's memories truly been replaced? Or had they only been pushed back to make way for Lohengrin's memories? Had Lohengrin really been Mytho's knight? Was Fakir literally the reincarnated spirit of that loyal friend?

This was too much to think about right now. Charon stepped back into the doorway.

"I need to get ready myself," he said. "Autor will be back soon."

Fakir nodded. "I'm done," he said. "Do you think Fakir would mind if I read one of his books while I wait for us to leave?"

The pain went deeper. "No," Charon said, his voice taut. "He wouldn't mind."

xxxx

Ahiru nearly jumped a mile at the frantic knocking that resounded through the house a while later.

"I'm coming!" she called, flying to her feet with such force that she tripped and crashed on the floor. With a weak groan she pushed herself up and ran out of her room, flying down the hall and the stairs. Though she caught sight of Fakir looking out of his room, she did not stop. "Someone's at the door!" she yelled over her shoulder, not bothering to berate herself for the obvious statement.

It was a miracle she avoided falling down the stairs, she thought as she pulled the door open in the kitchen. But then she gasped. Autor was standing there, completely pale. Behind the glasses, his eyes were wide.

"Autor!" Ahiru exclaimed. "What's wrong? Did you find out about the train?"

He nodded, stepping past her into the kitchen. "I did, but that's not important right now," he said. "There's a mass panic in the town." He turned to face her. "Everyone remembers everything!"

"Eh?" Ahiru gaped at him. "What are you talking about, Autor?"

"Drosselmeyer's Story!" Autor said impatiently. "We knew they were starting to recall bits and pieces. But now they have all of their memories back. They remember the heart shards, Princess Tutu, even the Raven and becoming crows."

Ahiru fell back. "What?" she cried. "How could they? And all at once, too?"

"I don't know." Autor pushed up his glasses. "It's strange, though, isn't it? They all remember everything and Fakir has forgotten everything." He frowned, crossing his arms. "Almost as if there was an exchange of some kind."

Ahiru swallowed hard. "Exchange?" she echoed. A dark feeling was taking hold of her heart. What did this mean? Was it even more serious than they had thought?

"This is bad, isn't it?" she squeaked at last.

"Very bad," Autor said. "And there's nothing we can even do about it. All we can do is stay with our plan and try to get Fakir to Mytho as soon as possible. Right now he's our best hope. Above all else, Fakir must regain his memories and knowledge. Only then can we deal with the problems here in Kinkan Town."

Ahiru gave a weak, overwhelmed nod.

Now everything had gone from bad to worse.


	5. Doubts and Fears

**Chapter Five**

The next hour was a blur. Autor had managed to reserve seats for them on the last train of the night, which was set to depart in an hour and a half. With the panic all over town, however, he was concerned that they would either not make it in time or that the train would not leave at all. He did think he had heard the ticket-master say that the train was not from Kinkan and was only stopping to collect Kinkan passengers, in which case it of course would leave. But due to the noise of the upset people in the background, he could not say for certain that he had heard correctly.

Getting across town with their luggage was another challenge. The carriage drivers were not operating due to both other people's alarm and their own. But Charon at last convinced one man to allow him to drive the carriage for that trip. "You can pick it up at the train station in the morning," he said, "or after we get onboard tonight."

People had spilled into the streets, frantically discussing their newfound memories with family and friends. As the carriage rumbled over the stone roads, the pedestrians looked up and scattered, some only at the last possible moment.

Fakir frowned darkly. "What is the matter with them?" he wondered. "What could have them so upset that they would blindly allow themselves to be in the path of danger?"

Ahiru, who was clutching Uzura, looked over at him, then at Autor, before taking a deep breath. "They're remembering a lot of things about a time when Kinkan was controlled by Drosselmeyer," she said. "F-Fakir and Autor and I were fighting against him."

"I heard someone say something about Princess Tutu," Fakir said. "Who's that?"

Ahiru shifted. Uzura was looking up at her in curiosity and concern. "Princess Tutu is . . ." She turned to look at Fakir more directly. "She's me. I mean, I can become her and . . ."

Fakir raised an eyebrow. "What is this?" he said, clearly disbelieving.

"It's true zura!" Uzura declared. "She was giving Mytho his heart back zura!"

"This is nonsensical babble," Fakir said. "Unless . . ." His eyes widened. "The Prince knows the forbidden power of shattering his heart," he said.

"That's right!" Ahiru said. "He used it to seal the Raven away after . . ." She trailed off. How would she explain that they had come out of a story? How would she explain the knight's fate from before that?

"Mytho is the Prince," Autor spoke up, his voice grave. "Fakir gave him that name after he lost his heart and his memories. Princess Tutu is a being summoned by his heart shard of Hope in order to restore his heart to him. When Ahiru wore the heart shard as a pendant, she was able to become Princess Tutu."

"I see." Fakir frowned. "But where was I during all of this? I remember fighting alongside the Prince during many battles with the Ravens' minions. Yet, when the Raven himself appeared, I . . ."

Suddenly he went sheet-white. Utter horror and terror flashed across his face. One shaking hand flew up, clutching at his right shoulder. "No," he choked out. "No, it can't be. I remember the Raven's claws . . ." He slumped back into the seat, quaking.

"Fakir!" Ahiru cried out, forgetting herself. But Fakir was too distraught to even correct her on his name.

"I was killed," he said. "How am I alive?" He stared down at his trembling hands. "How am I whole?"

"You will have to ask the Prince," Autor said.

Ahiru shot him a dark look. He spoke so calmly, so indifferently, when her heart was being shredded more every time Fakir spoke and every time she and Autor had to continue the tale while speaking of Fakir as though he were not with them. Had Autor really made himself believe that the Fakir identity was separate from Lohengrin, as he had tried to suggest to Ahiru to do? She could not do that. Fakir was Fakir.

Autor only pushed up his glasses. Ahiru had not seen him flinch when Fakir had envisioned himself being torn in two.

He did not know what to do, if he were honest with her. He was only pretending to be strong and to have the answer. Maybe this was not it. But trying to directly convince Fakir of his true self was not it, either.

_There is my power,_ he thought as the carriage pulled up at the train station. _I know the risks involved. If I just tried to see if I could bring Fakir's memories back, understanding the danger of corruption, maybe the darkness would not take hold of me again._

But he shuddered in spite of himself. What if it did? What if he became a threat to them once more and only complicated everything?

_No,_ he frowned. _I should have more faith in myself. It wouldn't happen again; I wouldn't let it._

It had happened before because he had not expected it. He had thought his goals would stay pure. Now that he knew firsthand how easily powerlust could creep into a heart and turn it black, he would be more careful. He had a level of maturity that he had not previously possessed.

But even if he did not lose his mind, and Fakir's Story actually was behind this, what disaster would Autor bring down by clashing with it? That was something that had to be considered too.

Or was he just making another excuse? He did not know anymore.

As he and the others climbed out of the carriage and headed for the station, he glanced over at Fakir. The other boy was still in shock from the vivid image of death he had seen. Even though he was trying, he could not fully hide it.

Either Lohengrin had feared death too . . . or that was the real Fakir surfacing.

_But,_ Autor thought alternately, _such a vision would give anyone a horrible fright. Maybe I'm only grasping in foolish desperation for anything that would indicate Fakir's true self hasn't been pushed as far down as I'm afraid he has._

He kept hold of his luggage as he walked, looking at both Fakir and Ahiru in concern. While Fakir was sheet-white, he said nothing. Ahiru looked ready to cry. And Charon was walking stiffly. Uzura stared up at them all, her blue eyes wide.

_It's selfish of me, to not try everything I can to save Fakir,_ Autor thought as they went inside the building. His fears were not an excuse; he had to overcome them.

But still, when he heard his Story's maniacal laughter in his mind, when he knew deep down it was his own laughter, twisted and unrecognizable beyond belief, his blood ran cold.

He gripped his valise tighter. He was never meant to bring Stories into reality. That was what he had been forced to realize after Fakir had been chosen. It was what he had always known deep in his heart.

Yet . . . why had the power been given to him if he was not to use it?

"Autor zura."

He started back to the present. Uzura was peering up at him now, tugging on his jacket. "Are you okay zura?"

He froze. Just how many emotions had passed across his face? He had thought he was keeping himself guarded.

"I'm fine," he said, feeling uncomfortable to be asked by this child.

"I hope so zura," Uzura said. "You told Ahiru that you were hurting too, so you must be hiding it well zura."

Autor had forgotten that she had overheard that conversation. He looked away, frowning at the almost-empty station as they entered. Apparently the noisy people he had heard on the phone had left. Now his and the others' footsteps were echoing loudly and eerily over the wooden floor.

It was a good metaphor for how bewildered and alone he felt right now. This conflict was not something he could discuss with Ahiru. He did not want to give her some hope that he actually could help, even if he could get past his fears. And he did not want her to worry about him in addition to Fakir.

But was it better for her to be upset with him?

He did not know how to be what he was not. He did not react to things the same as she did. It was easier for him to deal with dreadful situations by keeping himself aloof, though in addition, he felt that it was best in this case for other reasons. It was true; he had told Ahiru that he was hurting too, after she had asked. But she was so visibly worried that she still did not like how he was handling the problem. And he did not know what to do about that.

xxxx

The train was luxurious, featuring many private sleeping compartments as well as both a regular dining car and a lounge car. The latter, Autor noted when they boarded and were given brochures about the features of the train, featured a piano. But he frowned, quickly looking away from the summary and the accompanying photograph.

He was paying for much of the trip, though Charon had insisted on helping. They took the cheapest accommodations possible while still having privacy. Only Charon and Fakir would be sharing a two-bed compartment. Ahiru was certain that she and Uzura could fit in one bed, and Autor preferred solitude. Not that Fakir did not, but he was willing to go along with the idea of boarding with Charon to cut down the cost.

They had boarded too late to get dinner in the dining car, but the lounge was still open. "We should get something to eat," Charon said. "None of you have had dinner yet, have you?"

Ahiru shook her head. "I'm not really too hungry," she said, even as her stomach launched a protest. She clapped a hand over it, flushing in embarrassment.

Fakir still looked somewhat pale, but he had tried to calm himself outwardly. "You wouldn't have to order much," he said. "The man is right; you shouldn't try to go all night without sustenance."

Ahiru cringed. She sneaked a look at Charon, but he had turned to go to the lounge car. His expression was unreadable, though Ahiru could see he was slightly stiff as he walked.

The car was pleasant enough when they arrived. Due to the late hour, there were not many others around, which suited the small Kinkan group just fine. Autor led them to a booth that was furthest away from the other passengers and slid into it. The others followed, though Uzura was not content to stay sitting. Her eyes were wide with fascination. She wanted to explore!

"Don't wander off, Uzura," Ahiru told her.

"I won't zura!" Uzura said, climbing down from the bench. "I'll stay in this room zura."

Fakir watched her roam the car, pausing to look at the other people and anything else she found fascinating. "Who is she?" he wondered. "And how did you end up taking care of her?"

Charon gave a quiet, pained sigh. "She's a living puppet," he said. "I carved her out of the wood of another puppet, one who gave her life to save Ahiru, Mytho, and . . . my son," he finished at last.

"I see." Fakir looked to Ahiru, who was staring blankly at her hands on the table. "And she's lived with you since then?"

"Well . . . except when she was with Drosselmeyer," Ahiru said. "The other puppet, Miss Edel, belonged to him."

She straightened, turning to look at Fakir. "Drosselmeyer was controlling all of Kinkan Town in his Story," she said. "Fakir is his descendent, so he has the same powers."

"I taught him how to use his abilities," Autor interjected. "He had to be tested by the Story-Spinners' oak tree as the proof that he was strong enough to wield them."

"And he passed the test," Ahiru said. "All of us were fighting against Drosselmeyer and his Story so we wouldn't be controlled by it any more. Fakir wrote a Story of his own to end it."

Fakir's expression showed no recognition whatsoever. "And did you succeed?" he asked. "Did Fakir end that madness?"

Ahiru shook her head, looking for all the world like a hopelessly lost little girl. "I don't know anymore," she said. "I'm sorry, I'll be back." She pushed herself up from the table, desperately blinking to hold back the tears in her eyes. Trying to ignore them, she hurried towards the back of the car.

Charon looked to her in concern. "Ahiru!" he said. His feelings of helplessness in this calamity were only increasing. What was he to do? What were any of them to do? It did feel as though the ending of Drosselmeyer's Story had only been a temporary victory. And with the townspeople remembering and Fakir having forgotten, what would happen next? Would everything unravel altogether?

No, he could not think that. Fakir had destroyed Drosselmeyer's machine, after all. That had to count for something.

"I'll go to her," Autor said, breaking into Charon's thoughts. He got up from the other end of the bench, but Fakir's voice stopped him.

"Hey," he said. "What's wrong with her?"

Autor frowned, turning to look at him. "Her dearest friend is missing," he said. "What do you think is wrong with her?"

Fakir glared, standing up. "But we were just having a simple conversation," he said. "Why should that have affected her so strongly?"

"If you only knew." Autor stepped away, moving to follow Ahiru into the observation portion of the lounge car.

_Fakir, where are you?_ he could not help silently asking. _If there's any part of your true self aware in your mind, Ahiru's suffering should cry out to you. How deeply have you been buried under this Lohengrin identity?_

He looked around as he arrived at the back of the car. More people were here than in the middle, some sitting in chairs while others were standing and admiring the view. Wraparound windows displayed the night sky and the darkened scenery, but one red-haired girl's reflection in the glass was a blank stare. She reached up, placing one hand on the smooth surface.

She gave a start when she saw the boy's reflection approaching. "Oh . . . Autor!" she said. As she turned, she put on a false smile. "Did you guys order yet? It's okay, I'm fine with anything you get."

"We haven't ordered," Autor said.

"Well, everyone else is hungry, aren't they?" Ahiru said. "Uzura would probably sit back down at the promise of food. . . . And I know you and Fakir haven't eaten for hours and . . ."

"Why do you do this to yourself?" Autor interrupted. "I know your heart is breaking. You don't have to pretend with me."

Ahiru looked down, the faux cheeriness fading. "If I can make myself pretend to be happy, maybe I can believe I really am after a while," she said, her voice quiet. "Anyway Autor . . . you pretend all the time. You said you're hurting, but you don't let it show. I thought I was good at doing that too, but today has been so different."

She looked back up at him. "I thought maybe things were just finally getting better," she said. "You came back, and we found out Mytho and Rue can visit, and . . ." She loosely clenched a fist. "Fakir was happy," she choked out.

"You were happy too," Autor said.

Ahiru looked away, something akin to guilt flickering across her features. "Yeah," she mumbled. "I was. But that's not what's important."

"It isn't a sin to want your own happiness," Autor told her.

"I just want Fakir back," Ahiru said. "Just like I wanted you back."

She stepped closer to the window, blankly staring at the trees and grass blanketed by darkness. "We all felt so helpless then, Autor. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn't do anything. Nothing we said got through to you. Fakir couldn't write. I couldn't become Princess Tutu. The oak tree wasn't any help. And then we just had to watch you destroying yourself a little more each day, until finally we were all going to die and you . . . you died instead to save us."

Autor flinched. He deserved this rebuke. After he had recovered, Fakir had screamed at him and had even struck him, which was to be expected from him. But Ahiru had always been forgiving and accepting and happy. Autor had never heard her speak of the pain she had felt back then. Though she had not been able to hide it in her eyes.

"I'm so afraid, Autor. I'm afraid that's what's going to happen to Fakir in the end, that he'll go do something reckless as Lohengrin and he'll . . ." She trailed off, her shoulders shaking.

"I never wanted him using a sword after what happened at the underground lake," she admitted. "I was terrified he'd get hurt. Maybe he would've won against the ghost knight. I don't know. But when I saw them fighting that time, I couldn't let it go on. I couldn't!" Her voice lowered. "Even though he told me to . . . to just leave him if they ended up dying on each other's swords. . . ."

"He said that?" Autor frowned. It was so like Fakir. And such a ridiculous thing to say to Ahiru. As if she could ever honor such a request!

Ahiru gave a weak nod. "I think Fakir wanted to be a knight," she said, "even though he was so afraid of dying. He wanted to do something to protect the people he loved and he thought that was the only way."

"But he learned different," Autor said.

"Yeah . . . only I wonder if being a Story-Spinner is even more dangerous than using a sword," Ahiru said. She turned back to face him. "I remember what you told Fakir back then, about brute force not being any match for words. Over and over since then, we've been learning hard that it's true."

Autor gazed into her sorrowful blue eyes. Yes, it was definitely true. And it was then that he made his decision. Fakir had needed to overcome his fear of death. Autor would overcome his fear of the darkness. He would not fall again. He would fight to the best of his abilities in order to save Fakir. Even if he failed once more, he would know that he had tried absolutely everything.

But he would not tell Ahiru. She would worry, as he had known before, and in spite of herself she would hope that Autor would be able to restore Fakir's knowledge of them. If he could not, it would be better for her not to know what he had attempted.

"Fakir can still be saved, Ahiru," he said. "We'll find the way."

Ahiru nodded. "Mytho probably has sorcerers or something in the palace court," she said. "Do you think they'd be able to help me figure out how to become Princess Tutu whenever I want? If I was Tutu, then maybe I could do something for Fakir."

"Maybe," Autor said, but he was frowning. He trusted logic and research. He did not know that he would trust strange magic. Still, if they were in Mytho's court, Mytho surely trusted them, and Autor trusted Mytho. Nevertheless, something bothered him about Ahiru's idea. And as he pondered a bit more, he realized what it was.

"There is something else you should remember," he said then.

Ahiru blinked at him. "What's that?"

"It was Ahiru, not Princess Tutu, who changed Fakir," Autor said. "Maybe Princess Tutu could help him now. I don't know. But I would be more inclined to think that if Ahiru can't help him, Princess Tutu could not, either."

Ahiru's eyes widened. This was clearly something she had not thought of. She fell silent, looking deep in contemplation.

Autor waited a moment before speaking again. "We should go back. They'll be wondering where we are."

Ahiru started. "Yeah, you're right." She smiled a bit. "I think I hear Uzura's drum."

Autor winced. But as they walked back through the observatory, he was pleased to see that this time her smile, though small, was genuine.

xxxx

Ahiru was still thinking deeply on her conversation with Autor after the late dinner, as she and Uzura said goodnight and went into their room. Autor's words had made a lasting impression on her.

_Could that be true? _she wondered as she stood at the small wash basin, brushing her teeth. _Could it be that I'm supposed to help Fakir as me and not as Princess Tutu? It was Princess Tutu who helped those suffering from Mytho's heart shards. But . . . what did Princess Tutu do for Fakir?_

Actually, what had _Ahiru_ done for Fakir? She was still somewhat stunned by the thought that she had changed Fakir from what he had been when she had first met him. And yet she knew something had changed him. Over the course of their adventures, she had seen him gradually begin to soften and warm up to her. By the time of the final battle against the Story, he had become her best friend.

_If I changed him, I did it without even trying,_ she noted. _But now I need to change him on purpose and I don't know how._

Fakir had been cordial during dinner and had asked her if she was alright, to which she had smiled and said she was. Talking to Autor and releasing some of her pent-up pain had helped a great deal, and she had felt she had the strength to reapply her cheery mask. It had made her happy to see Fakir concerned for her, albeit he did not feel anything about her personally right now.

Or did he? She paused, the toothbrush still in her mouth. What if his concern had been at least partially because of his true feelings locked in his heart?

She sighed. No matter what identity Fakir took on, she could not imagine him being an unkind, uncaring person. It was such an indelible part of who he was that even erasing his memories could not remove it. That was likely the reason for his concern, nothing else.

"Ahiru."

She turned, seeing Uzura in the doorway. Quickly she faced the sink, spitting out the toothpaste before attempting to talk.

"Uzura, what do you think of being on this big train?" she asked with a smile.

"It's amazing zura!" Uzura exclaimed. "Can we go exploring zura?"

"Sure, but not tonight," Ahiru said.

As she rinsed out her mouth and the toothbrush's bristles, Uzura made an audible sound of disappointment.

"It's too late tonight, Uzura," Ahiru said. "But tomorrow we'll explore everywhere!"

"Really zura?" Uzura said.

"Really." Ahiru replaced the toothbrush in its case and finally turned back to the child.

Uzura peered up at her. "Will Fakir come too zura?" she asked.

Ahiru froze. "I don't know," she admitted.

"I miss Fakir zura," Uzura said. "He just isn't the same zura." She stared at the floor, her eyes filled with sadness.

Ahiru pushed back her own sorrow as it tried to grip her heart. "I know," she said, walking over to Uzura. "I miss Fakir too."

"I hope it won't take a long time to get him back zura," Uzura said, looking up at Ahiru again.

"Me too," Ahiru said. Oh, what an understatement that was!

She took Uzura's hand. "Let's get some sleep, Uzura," she said. "Maybe things will look better in the morning."

"Okay zura!" Uzura chirped, agreeably walking with her back into the main room of the compartment.

Things would likely look better in the morning for the innocent puppet. But Ahiru had to hope that she herself would also be able to see things in a new light come the dawn. Maybe if she were lucky, she would know how to help Fakir.

xxxx

It was another two hours before one of the other compartments' doors quietly opened. The light in the corridor reflected off of Autor's glasses as he stepped out, concealing his eyes from view. After asserting that no one else was around, he shut his door and made his way up the hall with a casual air. He was good at blending in and not looking suspicious, even when he had something specific in mind to do.

The lounge closed at midnight, but as far as he knew the car was still open for people to enjoy the view from the observatories. He had to hope no one would be there, however. He would prefer not to compose with an audience, particularly when this piece would be an attempt to fight for Fakir's memories.

He was in luck on both counts. The car was open, but vacant. He slipped inside and crossed to the small piano in the middle section of the car. Again a bit of fear rose in his throat, but he swallowed hard and pushed it back down. He would do this, no matter whether he was afraid of the dark or not. He would not lose himself. That was a firm vow.

He sank onto the bench, placing his hands on the keys. Choosing the opening notes of a melody was sometimes the most difficult task. At other times they flowed. He had written several pieces of which he was proud. None of those, however, were among the works he had used to warp the world. They were regular compositions, meant to move and touch the heart but not to sway reality. Would he still even be able to do that?

He needed to start by capturing the essence of Fakir's personality. Strong, stubborn, protective. . . . Quick to anger, slow to forgive, yet loyal to a fault. If Fakir was on your side, he mused, you need never worry about a betrayal on his part.

There was the opening note. The first chords followed swiftly, and for a few moments Autor worked on two measures, writing, erasing, writing and erasing again.

_Remember, Fakir! You have to, for your own sake as well as for the people who love you._

It was when he began the third measure that something abruptly seized hold of his heart. Suddenly his vision was darkening, being covered by a thick, suffocating cloud. He gasped, falling backwards as he clutched his chest.

For a split-second, a translucent image of Fakir flashed in the fog. Its green aura and hateful glare seared into Autor's mind, along with dark and cold words.

"_Don't interfere."_

A cough rose in Autor's throat, bringing with it a coppery taste of blood. Blindly groping for the shelf of the piano, he collected the sheets of paper he had brought and staggered to his feet. Dizziness swept over him with a vengeance, but when he moved away from the piano, his vision cleared enough so that he could see the way out. He stumbled towards the exit, his heart still racing.

"Hey," someone called to him as he passed into the next car over, "are you okay?"

He did not answer, both because he only half-heard and because the blood was still in his mouth. He coughed again, this time clapping a hand over his mouth as he did. Something slick and wet hit his palm and his eyes widened.

Only when he got back to his room and staggered inside did he stop to stare at the crimson staining his hand. He trembled. The vision of Fakir's doppelganger flashed amid the blood for another miniscule moment before leaving Autor be. But the memory of the malevolent presence lingered.

"What," Autor choked out, "what was that?"

The otherwise silent compartment held no answers.


	6. Visions

**Chapter Six**

Both Charon and Fakir lay awake in their respective bunks for some time, unable to sleep. The events of the past hours were swirling around them, keeping their minds active for different reasons.

Charon was still unable to fully come to terms with the fact that Fakir no longer knew him or anyone else. He had hoped that he would be able to steel himself against the pain, but so far he had not succeeded. It was difficult to imagine it ever hurting any less. Even before he had taken Fakir in to raise as his son, he had been a close friend of the family. He had known Fakir ever since he had been born. And now all of Fakir's short life was a complete blank to him. There was no way of knowing if he would ever regain those memories, especially if something supernatural was involved.

But how could they go on like this indefinitely? Eventually Fakir would likely do something that would bring everything to a head. And if he put himself in terrible danger, would they be able to save him from following Lohengrin's fate?

_Would_ he follow that fate? While in Drosselmeyer's Story, Fakir had not been able to succeed as a knight because the role of the knight was not supposed to triumph. But they were no longer in Drosselmeyer's Story. Or were they? Fakir's Story was an extension of Drosselmeyer's, wasn't it? And Fakir was being manipulated by it. What did that mean for them? What did it mean for the future in general?

Charon rolled over, his thoughts fitful. It would be a miracle if he ever went to sleep.

Fakir was shaken by the vision he had experienced of his death. Now he recalled that day quite well—the battle he and the Prince had known for so long would come. He had promised to protect the Prince. Instead he had let himself be gruesomely killed by the Raven without even landing one strike. His deathcry was ringing in his ears.

_I let him down,_ he thought in despair. _If I hadn't been torn in two, he wouldn't have had to shatter his heart to seal the Raven away. Now, if the Raven is gone, I haven't been revived to aid the Prince in that battle. What could my purpose be?_

Maybe he was here to find his look-alike. But the boy would not be missing if it were not for him and his enemies. And what would happen to him after he accomplished the task of locating the hapless hostage? Would he die again? Would he be able to serve the Prince once more as his Knight, as he had thought and hoped? Or would he wander like the ghost knight, not knowing whom to protect?

When Charon at last submitted to slumber, Fakir still remained aware. He was on the top bunk, his hands behind his head as he gazed at the darkened ceiling.

Charon had told him it would be best for him to use some of the clothes they had brought. "Fakir would not mind," had been his quiet, almost sad-sounding words. Fakir had still not known what to think; after all, the clothes certainly were not his style. But he had conceded the point. He was currently wearing a T-shirt and shorts.

For some reason, he could not get that red-haired girl's stricken blue eyes out of his mind. She had been so upset in the lounge when they had discussed her missing friend's Story-Spinning abilities. And then that boy had gone after her, leaving that cryptic "If you only knew" comment when Fakir had queried about the reason for her distress.

Obviously she had been very close to the missing boy, the one who had been mistaken for him. And he stiffened. Of course it would only make it more difficult, having someone else around who looked exactly like him yet was not him. That was probably part of the reason for her departure. Fakir scowled in the darkness. He really had been thick-headed at the table. No wonder her bespectacled friend had seemed somewhat brusque.

He brought his left hand out, carefully tracing the wretched mark left by the Raven's claws. The proof of the fatal attack had been left on his body in the form of some sort of scar or birthmark. He had wanted to deny it, to insist that such a horrifying fate had not befallen him. But the memory had come. And then when he had been readying himself for bed he had seen the treacherous mark.

What would the Prince think of him returning after all this time? Did the Prince feel that he had been abandoned? Would his Knight be able to make up for his absence?

And what about the abducted boy? Would he be found alive? It would depend on who had taken him. The chances were, if he was alive, he was already being tortured. Fakir had not wanted to worry the others by telling them that, but he supposed he would need to prepare them for what they might find.

A sharp pain drove into his heart and he sat up straight with a gasp, clutching his chest as his hand shook. Something flashed before his eyes—an image or a vision that, though brief, seared into his mind. He—or was it the other boy?—was holding the red-haired girl in his arms, talking with the near-sighted boy in what looked to be the grounds of an old estate.

"_I just want the power to protect people,"_ he said.

And from far-off, a voice came to him, desperate, urgent.

"_Remember, Fakir! You have to, for your own sake as well as for the people who love you."_

He gasped, trembling, as the image and the voice were suddenly gone and he was left to himself once more in the quiet room.

"What," he whispered, "what was that? What's going on?"

What felt like an otherworldly hand brushed his mind. Another voice, his own but darker and cruel, whispered in his ear.

"_You don't need to worry about any of that. These foolish visions are nothing to you, Lohengrin the Swan Knight."_

He stiffened, his blood running chill at the icy inflections in the other voice. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Why do you mock my voice? Tell me!"

A quiet chuckle. _"I was lost and forgotten, but I will never allow that to happen again. I will be remembered. And you will continue your mission."_

Again came the stabbing pain, but now it was more pronounced and more final. Fakir let out a weak gasp as he sank backwards into the mattress and out of consciousness.

xxxx

In spite of herself, Ahiru was awake long before Uzura. With a sigh she threw back the comforter and crept out of bed, shuffling into her slippers. From past experiences with insomnia, she knew she would not be sleeping anymore. It was morning anyway, she noted as she glanced out the window, but it still felt far too early to rise. Her entire body was aching.

_I wonder how everyone else slept,_ she thought to herself, walking quietly to the door and cracking it open to peer into the hall. _Are Fakir and Autor still asleep?_

She leaped a mile as part of her question was answered. Fakir was standing in the corridor, looking awkward and uncomfortable as he gazed in the direction of her door. As they fully realized they had locked eyes, Fakir burned red and looked away.

"My apologies," he said. "Did I disturb you?"

"Oh . . . no!" Ahiru exclaimed. She stepped out, pulling the door shut behind her. "I couldn't sleep, so I thought maybe I'd take a walk or something." She looked at Fakir in concern. "Is there something wrong?"

She expected him to deny it, but instead he continued to look hesitant. "I don't know," he admitted. "Something strange happened to me last night. It involved you in some way, and apparently that boy Fakir, so I wondered . . . I thought perhaps I needed to make you aware of it."

Ahiru stared at him, bewildered. "What do you mean?" she exclaimed, forgetting for the moment her thought on how wrong it felt to hear Fakir speaking so formally. Autor had a semi-formal manner of speech, but around Ahiru and Fakir he had largely lowered his guard. With Fakir, it felt like now he was holding her at arm's length, not wanting to get too close. It tore at her heart.

Fakir winced and then scowled as she all but yelped. Ahiru clamped her mouth shut. He might not tell her anything if she made him annoyed.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled.

Fakir sighed loudly and looked away. After a moment, he turned back. "I saw a strange vision," he said. "Fakir was standing on the grounds of an abandoned estate, holding you in his arms. He was speaking to that other boy, the one with the eyeglasses, telling him that he wanted power to protect people."

Ahiru froze, staring in disbelief. "Really?" she gasped. "You saw that?" Her mind raced. What could it mean? Was it a memory? She did not remember it having happened, but if Fakir had been holding her, maybe she had been hurt. Could it have been after he had rescued her from Drosselmeyer's realm and she had collapsed?

"Do you know what it means?" Fakir looked at her, tense and urgent. And as he searched her eyes with his own, her shoulders slumped in despondency.

Fakir did not have the tiniest inclination to think that the one in the vision had been him. He was convinced that it had been his "look-alike", the one they were trying to rescue.

"I . . . I'm not sure," Ahiru said, mumbling again. And it was certainly true. Why had Fakir even seen such a thing? Nothing they had been trying to do had restored any memories at all. But just like that, in the middle of the night, something had come to him? Why?

She straightened up. This was something she needed to talk about with Autor. Would he be awake yet? She glanced to his door. Of course, everything was completely quiet, but that did not mean he was not awake. Still, she did not want to disturb him. If she could just stay patient long enough, maybe she could talk with him after breakfast.

Fakir shook his head. "I'm sorry to have troubled you," he said. "I shouldn't have brought it up. I just don't understand why I would have a vision of him."

_Because he's you!_ Ahiru screamed in agony without speaking. She clenched her fists, willing herself not to say it. But she could not stop herself from helplessly whispering, "Fakir. . . ."

For a moment his hard eyes softened. "I'll hold true to my vow," he said. "I'll bring your friend back." And he walked past, heading out of the sleeping car.

Ahiru could only stare after him in building sorrow and anguish. "As long as you don't know who you are, you can't," she said, so quiet that even she barely heard.

xxxx

Autor did not appear for breakfast. The group had previously agreed to meet in the dining car, so his absence was particularly disconcerting. It was not like him to either sleep in or to forget. Ahiru frowned, both impatient and nervous as she nibbled at her pancakes.

"It's good to know how reliable he is," Fakir growled.

"Something must've come up," Ahiru said, though for the life of her she could not imagine what. Where was Autor when they needed him? She had been waiting half the morning to talk to him and it looked like she still would not get her chance.

"Are you going to go talk to him, Ahiru zura?" Uzura asked, blinking in innocence.

Ahiru started and looked to her. "Yeah," she said. "I want to know why he isn't here."

Charon sighed tiredly. "Maybe he had trouble sleeping too," he said. His own eyes were bloodshot from lack of rest. He had woke up sometime in the night to find Fakir asleep and had not returned to slumber himself since.

"Maybe," Ahiru said noncommittally, "but you know how Autor is. He wouldn't let that stop him." And he was not likely to let anything else stop him, either, which only increased her confusion all the more. Was something wrong?

She frowned. What would be wrong? Autor had seemed fine last night. Surely that would not be it. But he had better have a good explanation when she found him, she thought to herself.

xxxx

She went back to the sleeping car as soon as she finished her meal. "Autor?" she called at his door, knocking softly at first in case he was asleep. But her agitation quickly got the best of her and she pounded harder. "Autor, are you there? Why didn't you come out when we were going to meet?"

For a moment there was silence. Then a weak voice rasped, "Please . . . don't do that."

Ahiru stiffened, ceasing her banging on the door and instead pressing herself against it. "Autor?" she exclaimed. "What's wrong?" She could hear him moving slowly across the floor. When he reached the door and started to unlock it, she stepped back. But when the door opened and she caught a glimpse of him, she cried out in alarm.

Autor was sick; that much was obvious. His skin was pasty white. His hair and clothes were an unkempt mess. And through the lenses of his glasses, his eyes looked glazed and streaked with red. Ahiru stared, her previous frustration vanishing.

"What happened?" she cried. "Tell me, Autor. Please!"

Autor stepped aside, allowing her to come in before shutting and locking the door. Then he sank onto the edge of his bed, running a hand into his hair.

"Tell me something first," he said. "How is Fakir today?"

Ahiru blinked in confusion. "Um, he's pretty much the same, I guess," she said. "But something weird happened! He had a vision last night where he saw he was holding me and talking to you." She looked down. "He just won't even think it's really him."

She could feel Autor's intent gaze on her as she spoke. "Really?" he gasped. "He actually remembered something?"

She nodded. "Yeah. At least, it sounded like it. But I didn't even know what to tell him when we're not supposed to say that he's Fakir." She looked blankly at the floor.

"Incredible," Autor breathed. "I didn't think he would really . . ."

Ahiru's head jerked up. "Wait a minute!" she said in realization. "Autor, what did you do? Did you try bringing Fakir's memories back?"

"I tried," Autor confessed, "but I was stopped by a translucent image of Fakir, not unlike what he saw in his dream before any of this happened." He pushed up his glasses. "I thought that my attempt had been altogether aborted."

Only now did Ahiru see the music on the nightstand. She walked over, staring at the two finished measures. "That's how far you got?" she said.

Autor nodded. "I was stopped on the third measure."

"And you got sick like this?" Ahiru stared at him, feeling the tears prick her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to do it?"

"I didn't want to get your hopes up, in case I failed," Autor said. "And I didn't want you to worry about me as well as . . ."

"Well, I _am_ worried!" Ahiru interrupted. "Autor, you look terrible! Tell me honestly, have you slept at all?"

"Slightly," Autor said. "For the most part I've spent the night ill. But it's been worth it. Fakir remembered something! And his doppelganger, or his Story, or whatever it is, hasn't been able to withhold it from him." He looked up at her, his eyes alight with a new determination. "I have to try again. Don't you see, Ahiru, the more he remembers, the better chance we'll have of being able to convince him he's Fakir. He might finally start to realize on his own."

Ahiru stared at him, her bottom lip quivering. "But . . . at what cost?" she said finally. "If you got like this just from composing that much, what will happen to you if you . . ." She trailed off, a sob choking free.

"I want Fakir to be saved," she said, "but I don't want to lose you, either. Autor . . ."

She sobbed again. Was this the only choice? Did it have to be one friend or the other? Why couldn't they all come through this and be happy again? Why were they being tormented like this?

"Ahiru." Autor pushed himself off the bed, still shaking. The room spun as he stood, but he forced the vertigo back.

"I'll never forget what I saw in Drosselmeyer's world, when I witnessed you and Fakir and the others mourning over my death. I won't let that happen again. I swear to you that I won't."

Ahiru shuddered, slowly turning to face him. He was completely serious; the pain he had felt from that time was reflected in his eyes.

"I won't die, Ahiru. I will compose my work for Fakir and restore his memories, even if only one at a time. You will talk to him and try to explain them to him. And together, somehow, we'll bring him back."

Ahiru swallowed hard. She wanted to ask how, how could they possibly, when Fakir would not even see the obvious truth right in front of him. She wanted to ask how long it would take and how Autor could be certain he could actually keep his promise to her. She wanted to beg him not to put himself in harm's way anymore.

And yet, she could not deny the small seed of hope that he had planted. She could not deny that part of her wanted to try this. It was the only thing so far that had given a portion of Fakir's true self back to him, albeit he did not yet realize it.

And so instead, she only nodded.

"Okay," she whispered. "Just as long as you really don't die."

"I gave my word," Autor said.

"I know, but . . ." Ahiru's voice quavered again as she spoke. "There's some things you really can't make promises about."

xxxx

It was late that night when Autor again returned to the lounge. After spending the remainder of the day resting, he felt well enough to attempt his composition again. He sank down at the bench, brushing the stray strands of hair away as they slipped over his glasses.

He had no idea exactly what memories would be restored to Fakir if this worked a second time. He had been surprised when Ahiru had told him what Fakir had gained the previous night. It seemed like such a random event to be the first returned memory.

But on the other hand, he mused as he looked over the two established measures, maybe it was not so random after all. Fakir's declaration of wanting the power to protect people had certainly always been a driving force for him. Recollecting when he had stated that was perhaps a logical starting point for him.

And what had Autor wanted the power for? He frowned as he cautiously pressed a key, seeking the chord he had decided on last night before Fakir's Story had interrupted him. There was no stabbing pain yet. His fingers found the other notes that comprised the chord without being stopped.

He had always longed to do something valuable that would make a positive difference, but had it been more for the people or more for himself? He had yearned so strongly for recognition and power, to have an existence that would long be remembered.

_Fakir was always more noble than me,_ he thought to himself. _Even at his worst, all he wanted deep down was to protect his loved ones._

_But what am I doing now?_

His hands were vaguely shaking as he came to the end of the measure. Was it from fear of the illness starting or was it from the illness itself? At this point he was not sure.

_I won't get any widescale recognition for this,_ he knew._ I only want to save someone important to both Ahiru and me. Have I changed?_

_I don't know. Even during the final battle against Drosselmeyer's Story, I let go of my dreams of recognition and focused on what was truly important. Though it took seeing the town full of crows for me to realize what was really at stake._

As he began the next measure, the perspiration began to form and trickle down his face and neck. He breathed heavily, staring at the keys as his vision split in two.

_Two measures will probably always be my limit,_ he determined. _Or can I push myself a little bit farther this time?_

He closed his eyes as he played the notes, hoping to stave off the double vision. For a short while it seemed to be working. He opened his eyes with caution to see while he wrote down the next part of the composition.

An invisible hand took hold of his throat, right away squeezing unbearably. Autor gasped, the quill falling from his hand to clatter on the keys. He reached up with both hands, desperate to pry the unseen force back.

"_I thought I told you not to interfere. It looks like you don't scare easily."_

He stiffened at the sound of the cruel voice from the previous night. _Fakir's Story,_ he thought in his mind. He could not speak. His vision swam out of focus as his oxygen continued to be choked off. He would fall unconscious within a matter of seconds. Would the Story let go then? Or would it keep pressing until either Autor's neck snapped or he perished from the lack of air?

"Autor!"

_Ahiru?_ He could not turn around to see her, but he could hear her running into the room, panic-stricken.

"Autor, what's wrong? Is it happening again?"

As she drew closer, Autor's frantic clawing on seemingly nothing became apparent. Her eyes widened in sheer horror. "Let him go!" she cried. "He's going to choke to death!"

"_Consider this your second and final warning,"_ Fakir's Story hissed. _"You are becoming far too troublesome. If you do this again, you will lose your life. I swear it on Fakir's miserable existence."_

Ahiru gasped. "Who are you?" she demanded.

There was no reply. Instead, the pressure on Autor's throat was abruptly released. Autor gasped and sputtered, the air rushing into his lungs with such force that he doubled over in a coughing fit.

"Autor! _Autor!_" Ahiru dropped onto the bench next to him, horrified. "Are you okay? Say something, Autor! Please!" She reached over, laying a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up weakly, his glasses sliding down his nose. A shaky smile played on his lips. "I managed four measures," he said. "That's twice what I accomplished last night."

Ahiru's eyes filled with tears. "Autor, did you hear what that creepy voice said?" she said. "You can't do this again. We'll save Fakir some other way. Please, promise me you won't do this again!"

Autor looked at her as he pushed up his glasses. "I already said I wouldn't die," he rasped. "No matter what I do, that still stands."

She shook her head. "No, you can't do this! Something was choking you, Autor! I couldn't do anything to stop it. And you sure couldn't." By now she was verging on hysteria. "I'm tired of being helpless. I can't stand it anymore! I just can't!"

Autor gazed at her, his heart going out to the innocent duck-turned-girl who had seen so much and who was still seeing so much. How could he really cause her more pain? What if he really could not stop himself from being killed another time?

"Alright," he said at last, feeling awkward as he rested a hand on her quaking shoulder. "I won't do it again. Not unless extenuating circumstances make it necessary."

She looked up at him, her expression agonized. It was the best answer she was going to get from him. And she was going to have to be satisfied with it, even though she was not satisfied at all.

"You've already opened the door, Autor," she said pleadingly. "Maybe we can work with what you've done for now and then Mytho can help us too. You don't have to risk yourself anymore."

Finally Autor nodded. "We don't know what memories Fakir has been given now, if any," he said. "We should find out."

Ahiru nodded too. But for a moment she continued to sit where she was, too emotionally drained to make herself get up.

Autor sat with her, not speaking. There were no words left to say, or perhaps, none that needed to be said.

xxxx

Fakir was lying awake, as he had the previous night, when it happened again. At the stabbing pain in his heart he shot upright, clapping a hand over his chest.

"What?" he whispered. "What now?"

The vision that opened to him took place in some sort of underground chamber, lit by light from the claw-like formation in the center of a lake. He was struggling onto the bank, badly wounded, while a blank Prince Siegfried stared through him.

"Prince," Fakir whispered in horror as he watched. "What happened to you?"

A girl in a raven tutu stood observing, expressing shock at the dark-haired boy in the vision.

"_My body is still in one piece,"_ he said with a triumphant smirk.

Fakir stared. Who was this person? Was it Fakir? Was it he himself, Lohengrin? But . . . he did not remember this as ever having happened. The Prince had never been like this. It looked more like a scene after he had lost his heart. Yet why would there be a concern that Fakir, the boy now missing, could have ended up with his body mutilated? It had to be a coincidence, but . . .

The dark-haired swordsman raised his weapon, much to the raven girl's shock.

"_Mytho, forgive me."_

The blade was brought down on the Prince's sword, snapping it in half. The two pieces flew into the air as white birds, vanishing from sight. And the boy's strength was spent. He fell backwards, even as a girl in white on the opposite bank stared in horror.

"_Princess Tutu . . . you must see to Mytho's future."_

He hit the water with a splash of finality. And Tutu cried out in grief.

"_Fakir!"_

The Fakir who was watching stared. "I don't understand," he said. "It is Fakir, not me. Why am I seeing his fate? Why is Princess Tutu's cry piercing my heart so deeply? I don't know her."

The image before him trembled. But instead of the vision fading altogether, it changed. Fakir's eyes widened in further surprise. Now there was a child quietly sobbing in an upstairs room, while a man—a younger, but clearly recognizable Charon—was helping him get dressed. The birthmark that Fakir knew he himself bore was clearly visible on the child's body.

"_This mark is just like in the legend that's been passed down among our people,"_ Charon said. _"I'm sure you'll grow up to be strong. It's a sign that you are the reincarnation of the brave knight who protected the prince."_

The child stopped crying and smiled brightly, comforted. But Fakir fell back in shock and disbelief.

"I have that mark," he rasped. "But I never met that man before last night.

"Who . . . who _am_ I?"


	7. Uneasy Arrival

**Notes: Finally, an update! The first half of this chapter was like pulling teeth. The second half came together much better. Hopefully now that we're at this point, the rest of the story will also come together without a long passage of time.**

**Chapter Seven**

Fakir found himself slowly waking up when the morning light entered through the cracks in the closed blind. For a moment he lay there in confusion, squinting at the beams. How had he fallen asleep? He had not known how he would ever succumb to slumber after the visions he had experienced. Had the same thing happened that he vaguely remembered occurring last night, with that strange voice forcing him into unconsciousness?

He sat up, shaking. Why? Why did that voice want to keep him from thinking about the visions and what they meant? He needed to know. The last one especially bothered him. And there was one person here who might be able to enlighten him.

He leaned over the edge of the bed. The blacksmith was awake, sadly gazing at the opposite wall. Fakir frowned, debating within himself. But at last he spoke.

"Who am I?"

Charon started out of his mind. Rolling off the bottom bunk, he stood and stared at the boy. "Who . . . are you?" he repeated, unable to believe what he was hearing.

Fakir sat up and then slid off the top bunk to stand and face him. "I had some kind of a vision last night," he said. "You were talking to a child. He had a mark on his body . . . the same mark that I bear." He pulled off his shirt, revealing the cruel scars on his upper torso. "You said he . . . _I . . . _was the reincarnation of the knight."

Charon continued to stare, his emotions bared in his eyes. "You . . . aren't sure you're Lohengrin?" he said carefully. Was Fakir actually remembering his true self?

"But who is Lohengrin?" Fakir exclaimed. "Am I his reincarnation?"

Charon drew a deep breath. "I don't know," he said honestly. "What I do know is that . . ." He hesitated, weighing his choices against one another. They had decided they could not tell Fakir outright that he was Fakir. But that had been before this shocking development. As far as Charon was concerned, this changed a great deal. Maybe now Fakir would be more open to the truth.

"You are my son," he said now, with conviction.

Fakir rocked back, his eyes wide in his shock. "I can't be!" he cried. "The missing boy Fakir is your son!"

Charon nodded somberly, even as his heart was pierced again. "He's missing not because he was abducted, but because he doesn't remember himself," he said. "You are Fakir!"

The color drained from Fakir's face. "No," he said, stepping back further. "No, I'm not. I'm Lohengrin, the Swan Knight. We're traveling to the Prince's kingdom to find a way to save Fakir. We . . . I . . ." He stumbled into a table, his emotions reeling in turmoil.

Charon's stomach twisted. Had he just made another terrible mistake? "Fakir . . ." he said in desperation, reaching out for the teen.

Fakir slapped his hand away. "It's a lie!" he roared. "I am not Fakir. I'm _not. . . ._" He sank to the floor, trembling, digging his hands into his hair.

Charon stood staring at the conflicted boy, horror and sorrow gripping his soul. Fakir was still not willing to believe it. And now, perhaps, Charon had made the situation worse than even before. He was not cut out to deal with this. In despair he turned away.

"Forgive me, Fakir," he rasped. "I don't know how to help you."

xxxx

Ahiru let out a tired, sad sigh as she leaned on the sill of one of the large observation windows. The wide-brimmed white straw hat she was wearing slipped back on her head, the stubborn piece of hair insisting on boinging upright as usual. She barely noticed.

Autor had not come out to breakfast again. Hopefully this time he was actually getting some proper sleep. If he did not come for lunch, however, she would go check on him and make sure he was alright. After nearly being strangled by what must have been Fakir's Story, it was hard to say what kind of condition he might be in. He had said he was fine, but she was not willing to trust that.

This time Fakir had not come either, and when Charon had arrived, tired and weary and looking like he was not hungry in the slightest, he had been sobered and distant. Ahiru had tried to ask what was wrong, but he had shook his head and said he would tell her later.

What he had said to her after breakfast had only sent her further into worry and turmoil. The memories Fakir was getting back were doing something, albeit they were not helping as she had hoped. Autor would probably say it might take some time since it would be a blow to his mental state, but patience had never been one of Ahiru's strong points, especially when someone she loved was in trouble. She wanted Fakir to get better _now!_

"Excuse me."

She started out of her mind, covering her mouth as a _quack_ nearly escaped. As she turned, her eyes widened to see Fakir standing before her. His eyes were still blank, and though his greeting had already informed her he did not remember her, it was a sharp pain nevertheless.

"Oh," she stammered, "um . . . are you feeling okay? You didn't come out for breakfast and . . ." She twisted a handful of her yellow dress in her hands.

Fakir grunted, walking over to stand next to her at the window. "I wanted to ask you something," he said. "This friend of yours, this Fakir . . . what is he like?"

Ahiru stared at him, dumbfounded. "What is he like?" she echoed.

"You're not deaf, are you?" he frowned.

Ahiru glowered. "In some ways, you're still like him," she muttered. Louder she said, "He can be really annoying! He's grumpy and crabby and we argue all the time."

Fakir raised an eyebrow. "Then why does he mean so much to you?" he countered.

Ahiru bit her lip. _Why?_ She had pondered on that question a lot for some time, even when they had still been in Drosselmeyer's Story. Her caring for Fakir had snuck up on her in such a subtle, unassuming way that she had not even realized until she had stepped back and taken a long look at them and their progressing friendship.

She turned to gaze out the window without really seeing anything. "Because . . . because we've been there for each other through so much," she said softly. "It started out that we both just wanted to help Mytho, so we worked together. But then it ended up so much more than that. When we worked together, we ended up trusting each other a lot. And I . . ." She wrung her hands. "I realized we were friends. Even though we argue and he's so frustrating, he's my best friend."

"Does he think of you the same?" Fakir asked, his voice impassive.

Ahiru froze. "I . . . I don't know if he feels exactly the same," she said, "but I think I've been a friend to him."

Fakir whirled to look at her. "Am I Fakir?" he said without warning.

Ahiru rocked back, turning to stare at him as her eyes became saucers. Charon had already told him the truth. She should not deny a direct question, nor did she want to. And this question was causing all of the pain and sorrow and heartache she had bottled up to begin breaking free.

"Yes!" she cried. "You're Fakir. Autor and me tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen! And Autor thought the only way you'd let us come with you was if we let you think you were Lohengrin and so we did and it's been so hard and . . ." She stopped, taking a shuddering breath.

Fakir was looking at her, his eyes narrowed. "I'm Fakir," he said, as if still trying to comprehend the idea.

Ahiru nodded, the tears pricking her own eyes. "Yes!" she said again. "You're Fakir. And I . . . I . . ." _I miss you so much!_ she screamed in her mind. _Please come back, Fakir. Please. . . ._

He turned away. "You realize this will take a lot of getting used to," he said. "If this is true . . ."

"It is!" Ahiru interjected.

". . . I don't know how Lohengrin fits into this," Fakir continued, ignoring her interruption.

"I don't, either," Ahiru admitted. She could not tell Fakir that he was Lohengrin too; that would get far too confusing for him, and anyway, maybe it was not even true. For the umpteenth time, she prayed that Mytho would be able to give them the solution to the mystery.

Fakir turned to glare out the window. He had been so certain of his identity as Lohengrin, but now everything was coming apart. If this was all true, if his regained memories were real and these people were not telling falsehoods, then he was the person he was leading them on a search to find. It was a blow not just to his beliefs, but his pride. He felt such a fool.

_Why do you have to believe any of this?_

He froze at the ominous voice that darkly mirrored his own. _Who are you? _he demanded in his mind.

_That boy is a sorcerer. He's giving you false memories so you'll believe what they long for._

Fakir stiffened. That could not be true . . . could it? How could he know one way or the other?

_Why would they do that? _he asked.

_The real Fakir is dead. You look just like him, so when they saw you they carried vain hope that you were him reborn._

Fakir whirled to stare at Ahiru, who was looking at him in worry and concern. Could he believe that? The voice left him with a dark and cold feeling. It never told him who it was or how it knew these things. But in contrast, when he looked at this girl he felt nothing except purity and light.

"Fakir?" Ahiru swallowed hard. "Are you okay?"

His heart raced. She said he was Fakir. Should he believe her? What if she and these others really were delusional because of their grief over losing their son and friend?

But why should he believe a voice that left him feeling so unsettled?

His visage steeled. "I'm going to be," he said.

As if in response to his words, a chill breeze swept over him and Ahiru. She gasped, grabbing onto her flying hat. "What's going on?" she cried.

Fakir shielded himself as papers and brochures blew in all directions. The dark feeling he had felt was now increasing. Outside the windows, the sky had gone completely black despite the fact that it was mid-morning.

"_So! This is what you've chosen!"_

"Who are you?" Ahiru exclaimed in response to the mysterious voice. "Are you Fakir's Story?"

"Story?" Fakir said in disbelief.

A cruel chuckle resonated through the observation car. _"I am,"_ said the voice. _"The Story that was completed and then forgotten. You will all suffer for that."_

The wind slowed and then ceased. Outside, the sky lightened to its proper hue. The feeling of evil faded into nothing.

Slowly Fakir and Ahiru straightened and looked around. The few others in the car were looking their way, fear in every eye. The voice had been heard by all. Carefully at first, but then with gathering speed, they fled the car.

Fakir turned to Ahiru, his eyes piercing with demands. "What is this about a story?" he said. "You're not making sense."

Ahiru bit her lip. "We're still trying to figure everything out," she said. "But the Story you wrote came to life and we think it's what's making you forget things and think you're Lohengrin."

"That's preposterous," Fakir snorted. "Stories don't come to life." Then, realizing what he had said, he amended, "I mean, not like that."

"We didn't believe it, either," Ahiru protested. "But it's true!"

"Who's 'we'?" Fakir frowned.

"All of us!" Ahiru said.

Fakir peered at her. Even though he did not want to believe that everything the voice had said was true, some of its words still nagged at him.

"That friend of yours," he said. "What is he?"

Ahiru blinked, honestly confused. "Huh?"

"Is he a sorcerer?" Fakir asked.

Ahiru's mouth dropped open. "Of course not!" she exclaimed.

"What is he then?" Fakir demanded.

Ahiru clenched her fists in front of her. "What do you even mean?" she snapped. "Why would you even think he's a sorcerer? That's a really weird thing to say out of nowhere!"

Fakir narrowed his eyes. He did not want to tell her that the voice had said it.

"If he isn't one, you should be able to tell me what he is instead," he said.

Ahiru stared at him. His eyes were cold, just like when they had first met and Fakir had been so opposed to her. What was going on? Just a minute ago he had acted like he was willing to start accepting things! Then the voice had come and he had gotten all mysterious.

"He's your friend too!" she said. "He's been trying to help you remember yourself!"

"How was he doing that?" Fakir had perked up now, as if Ahiru had said what he had been trying to get her to say.

Ahiru flinched. "We were all trying to help!" she said.

Fakir's patience ran out. He seized her by her upper arms. "What was he doing?" he snarled.

"Fakir, stop!" Ahiru cried. By now she had to admit she was afraid. Fakir was fierce as she had never known him to be around her, even at the beginning.

"Tell me!" Fakir ordered.

"Let her go."

Both of them turned in surprise. Autor was standing in the doorway, his eyes narrowed.

"I'll tell you what I did," he said as he walked in, "if you let her go. How strange, that of all people I'd need to save Ahiru from you."

Fakir stiffened. Something in his eyes flickered, a shadow of the Fakir they knew and remembered. For a moment, his hands shook as he released Ahiru.

"I wouldn't have hurt her," he said.

Ahiru was trembling as she fell back. But then she straightened and looked at Fakir with hope. She would cling to that glimpse of the old Fakir, however fleeting it had been.

"I know," she said with a genuine smile.

Fakir looked at her in surprise. Then, uncomfortable, he turned back to the approaching Autor.

The music student stopped, looking at him without wavering. "Your Story used its power to make you forget," he said. "I used mine to make you remember. The visions you've been having are because of that."

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "And how do I know that you weren't giving me false memories?" he returned. "The memories you want me to have whether they belong to me or not?"

"You don't," Autor said. "You can't."

Fakir stalked over the rest of the way, his eyes cold and hard once more. "I don't know," he said. "You sound a lot like a sorcerer to me." With that he walked past, leaving them staring helplessly after him for a long moment before they snapped to.

"What happened here?" Autor frowned, turning to face Ahiru. "I was in my compartment when I felt a dark presence. Then when I followed it here, Fakir was assaulting you!"

Ahiru looked at him in desperation. "Oh Autor, it was so weird!" she said. In several long and rambling sentences, she presented the events of the past hour to him. He listened with one hand on his hip, displeased and concerned.

"And now I don't know what to think at all!" she concluded. "I thought he was maybe going to be more like our Fakir again, but . . ." Her lower lip quavered and she looked down. "He acts like he's pushing us away like he was doing when he first woke up thinking he was Lohengrin. I don't get it!"

Autor frowned. "If the Story isn't exerting further control over him after manifesting itself to everyone in the car, then it's at least cast some doubts in his mind," he said. "I would say that at this point, Fakir doesn't trust it. On the other hand, he doesn't trust us, either."

Ahiru felt her heart twist. Autor had tried to stay impassive while explaining, but at the end she had heard the sadness creeping into his voice. That only made her worry all the more. If Autor could no longer hold his façade, then it really was serious. Not that they did not know that already.

"What are we going to do?" she said.

Autor sighed. "There's still a while before we reach Mytho's kingdom," he said. "I could . . ."

"No, Autor!" Ahiru grabbed his arm. "You remember what the Story said, don't you? It . . . it will _kill_ you if you try again! You've been so noble and brave wanting to help Fakir, but we have to find another way. Anyway, the way he is right now, he might not even believe any more memories." Her shoulders slumped. "He might think you're casting a spell on him or something."

Autor sighed. "That's true," he said. Ahiru caught sight of something unreadable in his eyes before he half-turned, pushing up his glasses.

". . . I'm not all that selfless, you know," he said after an uneasy silence.

She blinked, tilting her head. "Eh? What are you talking about, Autor?"

He looked back to her. "Of course, I want to help Fakir," he said. "That's my main motivation. But I can't deny that part of me is desperate to use these powers of mine, to prove that I'm capable of wielding them without losing my mind or being corrupted."

"Autor . . ." For a moment Ahiru could not think what to say. She just looked at him, stunned and surprised.

He sniffed. "I know, you must think I'm terrible now," he said. "I just don't want you to have an overly idealistic view of me."

She snapped out of her trance. "I thought you _wanted_ people to not know what you're like," she said. "I mean, you don't try to correct them if they think you're awful." Her eyes widened in realization. "Or . . . is that because you think you really are . . ." She trailed off in shock.

"Not entirely," Autor said. "I just don't find it worthwhile to even try reasoning with people who already have their minds made up on what to believe. But . . ." He fumbled with his glasses again. "It's true that I'm not the good person you see me as."

"That's _not_ true!" Ahiru retorted. "Autor, I know you're not perfect or something. You can still get on my nerves. But that doesn't mean you're not a good person. Not being able to always be unselfish doesn't mean that, either."

She looked down. "When we were still in Drosselmeyer's Story, and Rue had been captured and Mytho wanted me to give back the last heart shard, I tried really hard and it wouldn't come off." She shuddered. "Even after everyone got turned into crows, I still couldn't get it off!" She raised her gaze to meet his. "It was my fault. I was so scared to stop being Princess Tutu. I didn't want the Story to end. I didn't want to go back to being a duck. I didn't want to stop talking to everyone and studying ballet . . . and I didn't want Mytho to forget about me and go away.

"I felt like the most selfish person ever."

Autor's eyes widened in surprise. The extent of his knowledge concerning the stubborn pendant was the Story Drosselmeyer had forced Fakir to write, the Story that had caused Autor's own change of heart in the conflict. He had never expected to hear the full explanation, especially not from Ahiru herself.

"I know having power meant a whole lot to you," Ahiru said now. "Now that you know you really do have it, of course you'd want to know you can use it without going crazy." She gave him a genuine smile, though her eyes were sad. "You are a good person, Autor—even if you can't realize that. And I'm proud to call you my friend."

Autor looked at her for a long moment before at last shaking his head. "You're really more mature than you're given credit for," he observed.

"No." Ahiru linked her arm through his. "I just know a lot more than I did back then. So do you, Autor." She looked up at him. "You've changed."

"I guess that would happen after becoming so obsessed with world domination that I almost destroyed the only people who care about me." There was bitterness in his voice now.

"It was your Story that almost killed us," Ahiru said. "You weren't in control at all right then. And speaking of Stories, what really are we going to do for Fakir?" She gave Autor a worried look. "There's got to be something besides you trying to bring back all his memories."

Autor sighed. "Right now, I'm not sure we can do anything except give him space," he said. "As you saw, he doesn't want to listen to any of us."

Ahiru's shoulders slumped. "I was afraid of that," she mumbled.

Her eyes widened as something else came to her mind. "Oh! When the Story talked to us, it said we were all going to suffer because it was forgotten!" she said.

Autor frowned. "I'm not surprised," he said. "That makes sense as to why all of this is happening."

"But it made everyone remember now!" Ahiru cried. "Why couldn't it just do that in the first place and not have hurt Fakir?"

"That wouldn't have been good enough revenge," Autor said.

"Stupid revenge," Ahiru said, sounding bitter now herself.

"It is, isn't it," Autor remarked.

xxxx

The remainder of the journey was spent with everyone feeling extremely awkward. Fakir barely associated with any of them; even with Charon, he only spoke to the man if it was necessary. Autor was right that Fakir did not know whom to believe. As far as Fakir was concerned, the voice was certainly not trustworthy. But how did he know these other people were, either? _Purity and light!_ He could not believe solely in such feelings, or in visions that could have been fabricated. He needed something concrete to prove their tales.

The more removed Fakir became, the more depressed and discouraged Ahiru grew. Autor and Uzura and Charon could only watch in helplessness at the tragedy that was playing out before them. Ahiru was eating and sleeping less and less as the days wore on. Autor was frantic to find a solution.

Surely if he could restore all of Fakir's memories at once, there would not be any problem. Then Fakir would know what was going on and realize who he was. There would not be any room for doubt.

The dilemma there was that unless Autor could somehow be granted the endurance by a higher power, he knew he would never last long enough to write the rest of the composition that would unlock Fakir's lost life. And he had promised Ahiru he would not die. Completely aside from that, he honestly did not want to die, either. He was at a loss.

xxxx

It was an exhausted and well-worn party that at last arrived at Mytho's kingdom and made their way to the castle gates. Fakir led the group, his eyes stern and sobered.

"It sure is dark here," Ahiru observed with unease as they walked. "The sky's like night. Isn't it afternoon?"

"Yes," Autor frowned.

Fakir seemed unconcerned by the phenomenon. Instead he walked to the guard at the gate and met his searching gaze head-on.

"We're here to see the Prince," he greeted.

The sentry raised an eyebrow. "Is Prince Siegfried expecting you?" he asked doubtfully.

"No," Fakir said, "but he will see us. Tell him his knight has returned."

Now the guard peered at him, incredulous. "His knight?" he repeated.

"Since your hearing is in working order, you should stop questioning me and fetch the Prince!" Fakir snapped, his eyes flashing.

Ahiru's mouth dropped open. "Fakir . . . !" she exclaimed in protest.

The guard looked equally stunned. But before anything more could be said, Prince Siegfried himself appeared at the gate, adorned in his royal clothing.

"Fakir!" he gasped in surprise.

The sentry started. "My Prince, you know this boy?" he said.

"Yes!" Mytho reached for the gate, hauling one side of it open. "All of you, please come in."

Fakir bowed on one knee, a hand to his heart. "My Prince, I am not this Fakir. It is I, Lohengrin, returned to you after this long absence." He raised his gaze to meet Mytho's, who was staring at him in utter disbelief. "If you can find it in your heart to forgive my prior failure, I am here to serve you once again."

Ahiru hurried forward while Mytho stood in shock, unable to find words to respond. "Um, this is a really long story and it's a big reason why we came!" she rambled. Her shoulders slumped. "Fakir thinks he's Lohengrin."

Mytho swallowed hard, at last coming back to himself. "So I see," he said. "Everyone, please come with me. There's a lot for us to talk about." He laid a hand on Fakir's shoulder. "I was actually thinking I'd contact you, and now, here you are." He tried to smile, though he was still reeling.

"Yes, my Prince." Fakir looked at him, both expectant and hopeful—though he tried to show neither. "Will you accept my services once again?"

At last Mytho came upon a suitable reply. "You haven't stopped your services," he said. "You've always been my knight." He reached and took Fakir's hand, drawing him upright. "But we'll talk about that later. There are other things I need to talk to you about. All of you."

"What is it?" Ahiru exclaimed. "Is it bad?"

"Well," Mytho admitted as he half-turned to lead them up the walk, "I'm not sure."

"Does it have something to do with the dark sky?" Autor asked.

Mytho turned back and looked at him. From the way his amber eyes flickered with suspicion, it was not hard to deduce that not only was the dark sky a concern, but that Mytho wondered if Autor was responsible for it.

"Yes," he said then.

Autor felt a prick of hurt and guilt. He had thought Mytho would trust him more than this, after the conversations they had shared following his return to sanity. But on the other hand, they really were not that close. And he had caused a disastrous thing, even though his Story had possessed him for the very worst of it. Who was he to think that Prince Siegfried would really trust him? It was a miracle Ahiru and Fakir did.

Or Fakir _had,_ before any of this Lohengrin madness had started.

Ahiru frowned. She had missed the look Mytho had given Autor, but she did not miss that his voice sounded eerie and vague. She glanced to Autor, her stomach turning in circles. Something was wrong, both with the kingdom and with Mytho himself.

The Story was making good on its word to bring suffering to all of them.


	8. At the Palace

**Notes: I'm unsure of what to think of this chapter; it seems to jump all over the place and rely on short scenes and summarization much more than I really like to do. But on the other hand, I don't know how else it could have been written without ridiculously dragging things out. So hopefully I'm just its own worst critic.**

**Chapter Eight**

Autor's thoughts were turning over in his mind as Mytho led them up the path to the castle steps. In the past he would have been fascinated by the magnificence of the story castle made manifest in the real world. Even now he would be amazed by it, if not for the fact that more pressing matters were occupying his mind and thoughts.

For Ahiru to look like something was wrong with Mytho, maybe it actually was. After all, she knew him far better than Autor did. But what could it be? Fakir had not been able to write any Stories about Mytho. So why would his Story be able to not only write about, but change Mytho now? Had it become that powerful? It was not beyond the realm of possibility, considering how forceful Autor's own Story had grown. But if that was what had happened, things were even worse than Autor had thought.

"Um . . . where's Rue?" Ahiru spoke up, uneasy as they began to ascend the steps.

"She's discussing our kingdom's problems with the neighboring towns," Mytho said. "She should be back late tonight. We're all worried about this latest development." He glanced up at the black sky. "It just started getting like this a couple of days ago."

Fakir frowned. "What else has been amiss, my Prince?" he asked.

Mytho sighed. "That's the thing, it's so similar to what was happening before." He reached the top of the stairs and looked back. "People in the court are suddenly not interested in doing their work. Instead they're wandering out of rooms with blank stares, seeming to hear something no one else can."

"And I'm the prime suspect," Autor concluded.

Mytho hauled open one of the heavy doors. "Right now, you're the only suspect," he said.

"But Mytho!" Ahiru ran over, her fists clenched in desperation. "Autor hasn't done anything wrong!"

Mytho sighed. "I don't know. I'm afraid you may be trusting him too much, Ahiru. He caused this once. He could do it again."

Fakir was deeply frowning. "You say he did this before?" He gave Autor a dark glare, while still speaking to Mytho. "Why?"

"He was filled with a desire for power," Mytho said, stepping inside the grand front hall. "He nearly caused all of our deaths because of it."

Autor flinched. "I don't deny it," he said as they followed Mytho into the palace. "But I'm not responsible for what's happening now."

"And do you really expect we can believe that?" Mytho said.

Autor reached to push up his glasses. "No," he said. "I guess not."

"But it really isn't Autor!" Ahiru cried. "It has to be Fakir's Story. It's come to life like Autor's did and it's been causing all kinds of trouble! Fakir thinks he's Lohengrin and doesn't trust us and everyone in Kinkan remembers Drosselmeyer's Story and . . ."

Mytho stiffened. "They remember everything?" he exclaimed. "Before, they only recollected bits and pieces."

"It's everything zura!" Uzura spoke up.

Mytho blinked, noticing her for the first time. "How did you come to be here?" he asked in amazement.

"I followed Autor when he left the old man's world zura!" Uzura said proudly. "I wanted to be with my friends again zura." Her head lowered. "But Fakir isn't himself anymore zura."

"We'll help Fakir," Mytho assured her. Frowning at Autor he said, "And we'll stop whoever caused this to happen."

Autor narrowed his eyes. "Does Rue suspect me too?" he said.

Mytho hesitated, then shook his head. "She's been speaking in your favor," he said. "She doesn't think you're guilty this time. But I will be keeping a close watch on you nevertheless. I don't want you trying to manipulate her because of her belief in your integrity."

Before anyone could answer, he stopped in front of a long staircase. "I want to present you to the king and queen, but first you should freshen up after your long trip." He smiled, looking more like the Mytho they knew. "I'll show you to the rooms you can use."

Fakir nodded. "Thank you, my Prince."

Ahiru swallowed hard. "Yeah, thanks," she said. Still, she could not help being unable to relax. Something definitely was not right with Mytho. And if the king and queen felt Autor was guilty too, what kind of treatment would he receive from them and from the staff?

Part of her wished she could make sure that her room would be by his so she could watch over him better, but she was afraid to ask for that. And of course, it would be both inappropriate and completely mortifying for them to share a room. But she could not ignore the feeling that Autor was not safe. What would the Story cause next? Would she be able to do anything to stop it?

The thoughts tumbled in her head, insisting on being heard.

xxxx

To Ahiru's relief, they were all given rooms near each other on the spacious second floor. Uzura shared Ahiru's room, while Autor was across from them and Charon was next to Autor. Fakir was in the room on the other side of Charon's. After a few minutes Mytho went to speak with him in private.

Ahiru frowned as she splashed water on her face. She supposed Mytho was going to see just how serious the problem was of Fakir believing himself to be Lohengrin, but she still felt unsettled. Maybe he was also trying to see how Fakir felt about Autor and if a further case could be built against him.

"I know Mytho felt okay about Autor before he and Rue left," she said aloud to the room. "The Story must have done something! Mytho wouldn't just change like that."

But all things considered, it did look bad for Autor. If Mytho's parents were convinced Autor was at fault, maybe they would have persuaded Mytho to believe it too.

No, Mytho had more of a mind of his own than that! If he felt Autor was innocent, he would not be swayed. Even when Autor had lost his mind and gotten corrupted, Mytho had been certain that Autor could not be held fully responsible for his actions. This was a complete switch.

"Is something wrong with Mytho zura?"

Ahiru turned. Uzura was standing in the doorway of the private bathroom, blinking at Ahiru with wide blue eyes.

"I'm afraid so," Ahiru said quietly, walking over to the puppet.

Uzura frowned, looking down at the marble floor. "Is everyone going to change zura?" she asked, her voice sad now.

Ahiru's heart was pricked. "I hope not, Uzura," she said. "I really hope not."

xxxx

The next hours were filled with worried, tense conversations. Mytho spoke with Charon after Fakir, wanting to learn the situation from the point of view of their adopted father. But though Charon verified Ahiru's words and asserted Autor's innocence in the matter, Mytho did not seem convinced.

He was also unsure of how to handle Fakir's insistence that he was Lohengrin. Yes, Mytho admitted, Lohengrin had been his faithful knight—but not Lohengrin the Swan Knight. Mytho's Lohengrin had been a descendent, named after the first Lohengrin.

"Then that surely means Fakir doesn't have the memories of your knight," Charon said. "He thinks he is the first Lohengrin."

"I've never been sure whether Fakir is Lohengrin reborn or not," Mytho said. "But if he isn't, he bears a striking resemblance. Now that I have my memories back, it's almost eerie."

Charon gave a sad sigh. "When we try to tell him he's Fakir, he becomes defensive and angry. I was hoping he might accept it coming from you, but he might only think that we've convinced you of a falsehood."

"It's possible," Mytho agreed, "but I'll see what I can do."

He hesitated. "You say Autor has been using his powers again," he said.

"That's right," Charon said. "But only to try to help Fakir. He isn't the villain here."

Mytho sighed. "I hope he hasn't been using them for both and only telling you part of it," he said. "I honestly don't know what to think of him."

"Autor's an honest boy," Charon said. "Even when he lost his mind, he didn't pretend to be something he wasn't."

"But you see, the fact that he didn't pretend to be 'something he wasn't' means that he is capable of committing wicked acts," Mytho said.

"Everyone is," Charon said, a bit of an edge creeping into his tone. "What happened to you, Mytho? You're different than you were when you left."

Mytho blinked, for a moment looking honestly confused and lost. "I . . ." He shook his head, running a hand into his hair. "I'm fine, Charon. I realize Autor wouldn't have to be guilty, but it's true that he's the only suspect right now."

Charon shook his head. "Fakir's Story is the true enemy," he said. "I don't know all the details; in fact, Autor is probably the one you should go to."

"Unless he's fabricating stories," Mytho said, but it sounded half-hearted.

"Fakir's Story itself admitted its identity when it was causing trouble," Charon said. "Both Fakir and Ahiru can attest to that."

Mytho gave a vague nod. Now he seemed confused and concerned. What really was wrong with him? Why did he feel this overwhelming suspicion towards Autor? He had briefly thought about what Autor had done when odd things had started happening a few days ago, but when the idea of Autor being the guilty party this time around had then crossed his mind, he had pushed it aside. Yet ever since then, the idea had been growing and refusing to be silenced.

What if he really was being manipulated by Fakir's Story? It was a frightening thought. But still, Fakir had said he would be able to live freely. Certainly, being manipulated by anyone's Story would not be freedom. If the Story had enough power to rule over Fakir, however, couldn't it turn Fakir's promise null and void?

This surely could not be true. He did not feel like any of these thoughts and feelings were from a source other than his own being. Still, wasn't that what Fakir had said about the subtlety of Drosselmeyer's Story—that it manipulated people into believing that what Drosselmeyer wanted was what they wanted?

"I'm sorry," he said then. "I don't know why I've been so intent on blaming Autor."

Charon sighed. "If everyone in the castle learns he's here, it probably won't go well for him at all," he said. "Even if they don't all believe he's doing something now, they knew about the past, didn't they?"

"Some of it," Mytho said. "But they don't know his name or what he looks like. I'll do what I can to keep them from connecting Autor with the sorcerer who was putting the court into a trance."

"If they do find out, then what happens?" Charon asked.

"Some of them will be entirely unforgiving," Mytho said. "Autor's safety could be in danger."

"That's what I was afraid of," Charon said.

"I'll have Fakir watch out for him," Mytho promised. "He trusts me at the moment. And neither of us want to see Autor hurt, even if he could be responsible."

Charon nodded. "What will you say to Fakir about who he is?" he wanted to know.

Mytho stared into the distance as he thought. "I'll try to find out why he's so set against the idea of being Fakir," he said. "And I may try to casually show him a tapestry here that depicts Lohengrin and me. It makes it clear that Lohengrin is not the Swan Knight."

"I hope you'll have better success than the rest of us have had," Charon said.

"As do I," Mytho said. "I don't like seeing Fakir like this. He could get himself hurt very badly." He frowned. "And poor Ahiru. She looked terrible."

"She's been taking this hard," Charon agreed. "But I can't blame her." The weary look in his eyes was just a hint to the pain that he himself had been suffering because of Fakir's delusional behavior. The fact that Fakir still did not know him was a horrible blow to try to accept.

"No," Mytho said. "I can't, either." He stood. "I'll talk to Fakir again now. Goodbye, Charon."

Charon nodded, watching the boy cross to the door. "Goodbye," he returned.

xxxx

Fakir had already left his room and was looking at the tapestry in question when Mytho discovered him.

"This is us," he said as Mytho approached.

Mytho hesitated, unsure now of what to say. This had not been part of his plan. "It's me with Lohengrin," he said, finally determining that he would have to take the plunge. "He looks just like you, doesn't he, Fakir?"

Fakir stiffened. "You're not believing what these people have said," he said. "My Prince, don't you know me?"

"Yes," Mytho said, turning to look at him. "Yes, I know you—my knight, my friend, my brother. You may be the actual soul of Lohengrin alive again. That, I'm afraid I don't know. But I can say with full conviction that you have been just as loyal to me as he was."

Fakir took a shaking step back. "No!" he said. "I _am_ Lohengrin, the Swan Knight. I am not this Fakir. I can't be!"

"Look carefully at this tapestry," Mytho said, glancing back to it himself. "It traces my and Lohengrin's lineages. Who is depicted as Lohengrin's ancestor?"

Fakir frowned, peering at the woven scene. But as he fully took stock of the element Mytho had mentioned, the color drained from his face.

"The Swan Knight," he breathed, staring at the figure of a man in a boat pulled by a large swan.

He whirled to look at Mytho, his heart racing. "The tapestry has to be wrong!" he said. "I am the Lohengrin who served you. I am the Swan Knight!"

"But the Swan Knight _isn't_ the Lohengrin who served me," Mytho said quietly. "Your Story has lied to you, Fakir. It's given you false memories woven around the only Lohengrin whom you know about by name."

"No!" Fakir retorted. His pupils had shrunk in his heightening desperation. Combined with his pale skin and gaunt features, he resembled a spectre.

"I am the Swan Knight," he repeated, backing up further. "There's been a mistake."

"Are you saying that I don't know who my knight was, Fakir?" Mytho asked.

Fakir regarded him in shock. "I . . ." He stood in contemplation, hesitating again. "No! Of course not! But . . ." He looked at the tapestry, trembling. The remaining threads of his beliefs, which he had tried so hard to hold together, were unraveling around him. Prince Siegfried was calling him Fakir as well. And the Swan Knight had been a different Lohengrin. It was too much to take in all at once.

"Forgive me, my Prince." With that Fakir turned and fled down the hall.

Mytho gazed after him in sadness. "Where will you run, Fakir?" he wondered. "You will stop denying the truth soon, but what will our enemy do to you then?"

"_I wonder,"_ an unseen voice sneered. _"This was all part of my plan, as was him and those others coming here in the first place. After all, this kingdom is where the final stage will take place. Fitting, isn't it?"_

Mytho started and looked up as a mad chuckle echoed up and down the hall. "You . . . you sound like Fakir," he gasped.

"_And you won't remember our meeting after this,"_ replied the voice.

Mytho opened his mouth to protest. But before he could utter one syllable, darkness descended over him.

xxxx

Autor was dozing on the large bed in his quarters when a sharp knock brought him to his senses. Pushing up his glasses, he stumbled down and over to the door. "I'm coming," he said in irritation when the knocking came again.

As he opened the door, he stared in surprise at a flint-faced Fakir. "What do you want?" he asked in both confusion and suspicion. Something was wrong; Fakir seemed still more different than he had before.

"You are going to be under surveillance," Fakir said. "I will be watching you closely to make sure you don't try anything foolish. But I'll also be your savior should anyone else find out who you are and try to do away with you."

Autor's eyes widened, not sure what to make of these statements. "I see," he said. "Then you think there's going to be trouble?"

"There could be," Fakir said. "And don't get any ideas about using your powers."

"No," Autor said stiffly. "Of course not."

Fakir turned away and Autor shut the door, his eyes narrowed darkly. So they were going to attempt keeping his identity secret, even from the king and queen? That was just as well, though he wondered how it was going to work.

_My life is in danger here,_ he knew. But the biggest threat was still the Story. It was behind everything in the end. And the longer Fakir went on refusing to accept the truth, the more he would become estranged from them.

Autor could only pray that Fakir would never become an enemy himself.

_I caused you untold pain when I was your nemesis,_ he said in silence as he went back to the bed. _Maybe I deserve to know exactly how it feels, but Ahiru doesn't deserve to go through that again with anyone. You had better not do that to her, Fakir._

He lay down, running a hand over his eyes as he removed his glasses.

xxxx

The time to be presented to the king and queen came around soon enough. Quite recovered from his experience in the hall, Mytho made the rounds to each room, gathering his guests for the meeting. Each felt different; while Ahiru was jittery and worried, Autor and Charon were quietly tense, Uzura was fascinated, and Fakir felt it was an honor.

Mytho had already informed his parents of Fakir's awkward mental state, but when they saw him and how closely he mirrored Lohengrin's looks and actions, it was still an immense shock. Mytho had always ignored all rules about rank and class and had loved Lohengrin as his brother. Witnessing Fakir was like seeing Lohengrin restored and come home.

He introduced the others as friends and Charon as his second father, the man who had taken care of him in Kinkan Town after his years of wandering. As he was careful to not reveal Autor's true identity, the near-sighted boy was welcomed just as much as the rest.

A large feast was prepared in their honor, for which Autor and Charon were relieved. Ahiru would at last have a decent-sized meal, something she had not partaken in for the last several days. But as they all ate and discussed the problems of the kingdom, a solution never presented itself.

Fakir was tense through most of the meal, though he tried to hide it and denied it when he was asked. When he finished eating, he promptly excused himself. Ahiru and Mytho watched after him helplessly before the king spoke and turned their attention back to other concerns.

Not only did more people leave the court each day, the king explained, and not only was the sky becoming increasingly dark, but there was an ominous, evil feeling that was slowly permeating through the town itself.

"We don't know its point of origin or anything about it," they were told. "Our sorcerers and magicians who haven't left us haven't been able to give us so much as a hint. Our only clue is the person who caused havoc and upheaval in the court before."

Autor looked down at his plate, certain his eyes reflected his guilt at the moment.

"What if it isn't him?" he asked. Raising his gaze he added, "He was supposed to have been brought back to his senses and recommitted to his morals."

"That's true," the king said, leaning back in his seat with a jeweled goblet. "But there's no telling if he fell back into his madness. However, you and your friends say that this Story is responsible. If that's so, how do we stop it?"

"That's a really good question," Ahiru mumbled. "Fakir's the one who wrote the Story, and he's not in any shape to try to fix it."

Autor frowned. They were back to where they had started. They needed to fix Fakir before the Story could be fixed, but in order to fix Fakir they had to fight the Story. It was a vicious cycle. He gripped his fork. There was only one solution, which was not really a solution at all.

"Isn't there anyone else who could complete this task?" the queen wondered.

Autor chewed and swallowed a piece of meat. "As far as we know, there is only one other who could try," he said. "But he's already tried and failed."

Ahiru whirled, staring at him with wide eyes. Of course the conversation would have come to this eventually, but how was he going to tell it without revealing his identity as the very one the kingdom reviled? She half-wanted to kick him under the table and get his attention, but she did not dare. With her luck, she would kick the wrong person.

"And who is this other?" the king frowned.

"The only other person alive who possesses the kind of power necessary to bring stories to life," Autor said. "The very one who lost his mind in the past."

The king sputtered. "Our only chance is to leave the world's fate in his hands?" he exclaimed.

Ahiru bit her lip. If Mytho were his normal self, here he would reassure his parents that it was alright. But when she looked to him, it was clear that he was conflicted. He did not know himself what to say or who to side with in the matter.

Autor shook his head. "As I said, Your Majesty, he's tried and failed. The slightest attempt to fight the Story and restore Fakir's lost memories results in serious injury. If he does this again, he does it under the threat of death from the Story. He isn't a coward," he added immediately, "but his death would be pointless. He would never be able to compose as much music as would be needed before he would be killed."

The king passed a hand over his eyes. "Then there truly isn't any hope," he said.

"The only other hope is Fakir himself," Charon spoke up. "The hope that he will remember his true self on his own."

"And is there any chance of this?" the queen asked.

The burden grew heavier in Charon's eyes as he spoke. "Very little, I'm afraid," he said.

The mood over the rest of the dinner was somber and grave. Hearing the state of Mytho's kingdom and combining that with their own side of the story left the visitors both frantic and at a loss. Something needed to be done immediately, yet that was impossible. There was nothing that could be done while they were at a standstill.

"Mytho," Charon said to the prince as they stood after the meal, "what happened when you talked to Fakir and showed him that tapestry?"

He was stunned to receive a blank stare. "I don't know what you're talking about, Charon," Mytho said. "I never did get the chance to talk to him before we were presented. And then you know he excused himself so abruptly from dinner."

But even as he spoke, it did not sound right to him. His eyes widened as he stared into the distance.

"What is it I'm forgetting?" he whispered as if no one else was there. "I'm forgetting something, but I can't remember what."

And Charon's heart sank. They were all pawns of the Story, currently in a kingdom that had once only existed in a story. It was possible that only made it more dangerous for them, especially since Fakir's Story had concluded the Story begun by Drosselmeyer that had created this kingdom in the first place.

What were they going to do?

xxxx

Far away from all of them, writhing in pain in a bed of hay, Fakir was digging his fingers into his scalp. He clenched his teeth, his eyes wide as the anguish raked through his soul.

He had been both in physical and mental torment for hours, ever since he had fled the tapestry in the hall. He was struggling to remember what simply would not come. The Story was punishing him for doing so. The fight had calmed down during the presentation and the feast, but his own emotional distress had left him uncomfortable and uneasy and had caused him to make his hasty departure from the banquet room. Now the Story was torturing him again.

"_There will be no more of this doubting yourself,"_ the voice told him. _"All of reality has been altered by that sorcerer boy. He has made the Prince forget the truth and planted that false tapestry. He has done all of this, with the encouragement of the girl and the man. They all deserve your hatred."_

"No," Fakir rasped. "No. . . ."

"_Do you deny me?"_ the voice snarled.

For a moment, fire burned in Fakir's eyes. "Yes," he snarled. "Yes, I deny you. I can't trust you. I haven't trusted them either, but maybe they . . . maybe they have been telling the truth."

"_Just because of one tapestry?"_ said the voice.

"No," Fakir retorted. "Because of all the evidence stacking in their favor. The evidence I've been denying because of my cowardice. I haven't wanted to let go of Lohengrin or the security of being him. I haven't wanted to accept that I might be someone else, someone whom I don't remember at all. But it's time that changed."

A translucent double of himself with an aura of green materialized in front of him. "Then it's finally come to this," it sneered in the same, hated voice that he had been hearing. In his hands he held a sword that resembled a writing quill.

Fakir stared. He did not understand why, but the sight of the sword and the being sent an unshakable fear into his heart. Before he had the chance to even ask what was going on, the blade slashed in his direction.

Instantly he brought up his own sword, meeting the enemy weapon head-on.

"I'll fight you," he vowed. "And when I win, you'll be through."

"_You'll_ be through whether you win or not," his doppelganger sneered. "For even if you decide to become Fakir, you have no memories of that time of your life. And unless you retrieve them tonight, you will die and everyone will forget you ever existed—before they and this kingdom are destroyed too." The creature leaned in with a treacherous glint. "And the only person who can give your memories back to you will die the moment he tries."

Fakir clenched his teeth. "Then you admit I'm Fakir too," he said as he strained against the blade.

"I admit nothing!" said the doppelganger. "I'm only telling you what will happen if you decide to become him."

Fakir forced him back and got to his feet. "I won't accept such a miserable fate!" he said. "I will learn who I am and live my life!"

The spectre gave him an eerie grin. "Far be it from me to hold you back," it said. "I wish you good fortune in your last hours." And with a cold-hearted laugh it vanished. Fakir was left gripping his sword, staring at the spot where the wretch had been.

"Fakir!"

Slowly he turned, hearing the now-familiar voice. The red-haired girl was running up to the stable doors, worry in her blue eyes. But when she saw him standing, appearing alright, she relaxed.

"Oh thank goodness, you're okay," she said.

Fakir regarded her in confusion. "How did you know I'd be here?"

"I didn't," she said. "But I know you like the stable back home, so I thought I'd try."

Fakir blinked in surprise. A slow smile stole across his features. "I see," he said.

Surprised by his reaction, she advanced further into the stable. "Fakir? Are you really okay?" She studied him in the dim lantern light, but the shadows that danced across his face only made it all the more difficult to tell what he was thinking.

"I . . ."

Without warning the sword slipped from Fakir's grasp. He sank to one knee, clutching at his heart.

Ahiru cried out in horror. "Fakir, what's wrong?" she wailed, running to his side.

He looked up at her, gritting his teeth in pain. "It looks like that demon was right," he choked out. "If I don't regain my memories tonight, I'm dead."


	9. The Beginning of the End

**Chapter Nine**

Autor leaned forward on his bed, his hands clasped in front of him. The conversation from dinner was replaying in his mind, but never with any satisfying answers.

He and Fakir were the only ones who could stop this. They knew that. But as long as Fakir could not remember, let alone accept, who he was, there was no hope that he could do anything. And if Autor tried, he would be killed.

He straightened, looking to the paper on which he had been writing his music. His hope before had been that if he restored enough of Fakir's memories, Fakir could piece together the rest. Obviously what he had restored had not been enough. But what if he could do more? What if he could bring enough of Fakir's memories to light that his plan would be realized?

The problem was, how would he do that and stay alive too? Did he have the willpower and the stamina to outlast what the Story would do to him? He could not break his promise to Ahiru. But how could they keep waiting and hoping for Fakir to remember on his own? Judging from what was happening in Mytho's kingdom, they did not have the time for that. Everything was moving too fast.

He stood and crossed to the window. The sky was dark, just as it had been when they had arrived. Or . . . no, it was even darker, if that was possible. There were no stars and no moon. Everything had been blocked out by some unknown force. And there was something evil in the air. Autor had felt it since their arrival, and in the succeeding hours, it had only grown stronger. It was silent outside, but it was a deathly silence, the calm right before a vicious storm.

"God give me the strength to do what has to be done," he whispered to the spacious room. As far as he was concerned, it was not brave or noble at all—it was simply the only logical path that could be taken. He drew a deep breath as he straightened and turned.

He would have to be careful while searching for a piano. And when he found one, he would have to lock himself in the room with it. If anyone who was part of the court got wind of what he was doing, they would try to stop him, maybe even to kill him right there. If he could confide in Mytho he would, but as far as he was concerned, he was still on his own. Mytho's behavior was too strange; he could not be trusted.

"Autor! Autor!"

He jumped a mile at the sudden pounding on the door. But, recovering quickly, he went to the knob and turned it. Ahiru was standing there, her eyes wide in fear and both fists raised to pound on the heavy slab.

"What on earth is it?" Autor frowned.

"It's Fakir!" Ahiru exclaimed. "He collapsed in the stable and was saying weird stuff about dying if he doesn't get his memories back tonight and something about a demon and do you think he saw his Story? Autor, his heart's bothering him! What are we going to do?"

Autor stared at the rambling girl, trying to make sense of her cries. But at her final statement his eyes widened. This had all started after Fakir's heart had pained him, as they both remembered all too well.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"Charon took him to his room!" Ahiru said, pointing down the hall. "The doctors are in there with him now. Oh Autor . . . !" She trembled, tears standing out in her eyes.

Autor stepped closer, peering into the corridor. They would not likely be allowed in until the medics finished their examination. Taking hold of Ahiru's wrist, he drew her into his room and shut the door behind her.

"Fakir will be alright," he vowed. "Try to calm down. What exactly did he say, as close as you can recall?" He guided her to a chair and placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing her gently into it.

Ahiru wrung her hands. "I went into the stable and he was standing there, looking okay," she said. "He didn't act mad or anything. Actually, he . . . he smiled at me. But then he dropped his sword and fell down grabbing his heart! W-when I ran over to him, he said what I said he said about 'the demon being right' and 'he'd die if he didn't get his memories back tonight'. Then he just fainted!"

Autor frowned. He had not anticipated this at all. He turned away, facing the window.

"I realized everything was moving fast," he said, "but I didn't realize it was this fast. There really isn't any other choice." He turned back to face Ahiru, his visage grim. "I told you I wouldn't try to restore Fakir's memories any more, unless it came to this."

Ahiru went sheet-white. "No!" she cried, leaping to her feet. "No, Autor! You can't!"

He took hold of her wrists as she reached to grab his upper arms. "I promised I wouldn't die, Ahiru," he said. "I'll do everything I can to ensure that. But there's no way Fakir will be able to remember everything on his own in the allotted time. We have to help him."

Ahiru stared at him, shaking. "But . . ." She blinked back the frightened, overwhelmed tears. "You can't even give him back hardly any memories before you start getting hurt."

"And I can't choose what he gets back, either," Autor noted. "However, now I know the risks. If I steel myself against them, maybe I can last longer."

Now the tears did spill free. "You can't promise you won't die," Ahiru choked out. "No one can promise that." She stepped closer, staring through Autor's glasses at his determined brown eyes. She was going to lose him. She knew that. It was either him or Fakir, and that was not fair! She wanted both of her dear friends to survive.

Autor hesitated. Then he slowly released Ahiru's wrists and drew her into an awkward embrace.

"I died once already," he noted. "I think that should also help me in resisting death now."

Ahiru sobbed, hugging him close as she buried her face in his shoulder. He was going to go through with it. There was nothing she could say that would stop him. And if it really was the only way they could give Fakir a better chance to survive himself, could they really not try?

"Are you scared?" she whispered.

Autor looked at her, uncomfortable. "No," he said. "Afraid, maybe."

"Aren't they the same thing?" Ahiru said.

"'Scared' sounds more childish," Autor said.

Ahiru shuddered. "Well, I'm scared and afraid and completely terrified," she said. "And I don't care if it sounds childish!"

"You wouldn't," Autor said. "I do have a reputation to uphold, you know."

"Even now, you're so smug," Ahiru mumbled, but she didn't mean it. At last she looked up at him. "It's funny how I thought I could never like you at all," she said, her smile weak and shaking. "And now you're one of my closest friends."

Autor flushed a bit. "I never expected it would come to this, either," he said. "I saw you only as irritating and loud when we first met." And she certainly could still be both, he reflected ruefully. But she was so much more. He knew why Fakir had fallen in love with her.

"You're right that I can't promise I'll live," he said. "Even trying my best, I could fail. But in case that happens, I . . ." He struggled with himself. Why did this have to be so hard to say? "I want you to know—I've never had siblings, so I'm not the most reliable source to be saying this, but I think I've come to see you as a . . . a sister."

Ahiru looked at him in surprise. "Autor. . . ." She smiled weakly again. "That's how I see you too. Oh! I mean, a brother, not a sister. I . . ." She burned red in embarrassment.

Autor looked at her in amusement. He pulled back, resting his hands on her shoulders. "I'm going to need your help to do this, Ahiru."

She blinked. "Me? What can I do?"

"I'm going to have to find a room with a piano and lock myself in it," Autor told her. "I need you to stand guard and try to keep anyone in the palace court from interrupting me."

Ahiru swallowed hard. "I'll do my best," she said. "When are you going to go?"

"Once we know more about Fakir's condition." Autor released her completely and walked to the door, easing it open. "The medics are coming out now. Let's talk to them."

Ahiru nodded and hurried after him as he stepped into the hall. The doctors turned and looked at them questioningly.

"How is he?" Ahiru asked, her eyes pleading for an answer.

The physician in the lead sighed, shaking his head. "He's stabilized," he said, "but he's not completely conscious. He's moaning something about how he 'should have believed them' and that 'they're all suffering because of him.'"

Ahiru's eyes widened. She ran into the room, taking up Fakir's limp hand with a cry.

Autor frowned, looking from the scene back to the medics. "Will he live?" he asked.

"There's no reason why he shouldn't," said the second. "Honestly, we can't find anything wrong with him. Maybe it's all in his head."

That would make sense, considering how the Stories seemed to work. Autor went past the medics to stand in the doorway of Fakir's room. Charon and Uzura were on Fakir's left side, and Mytho was by Ahiru on the right. Fakir was lying under the thick comforter, blankly staring across the room. Outside the window, a flash of lightning lit up the sky. They were in for a bad storm.

"Fakir?" Ahiru begged. "We're all here with you, Fakir. Can you hear us?"

Fakir turned blearily to look at her. "I don't know you," he said, his voice laden with regret. "I don't know any of these people, except you, my Prince." He glanced to Mytho. "I don't even know myself any more." He gritted his teeth. "I'm slated for death by morning. And that . . . that thing said all of you will forget me then and die as well."

There were gasps all around the room. "We won't!" Ahiru cried. "We won't let that Story control us, any more than we let Drosselmeyer's control us!"

"Fakir, you're going to be fine," Charon said, but the fear was etched into his face. "We'll all be fine."

"I can't remember myself. I only have memories pertaining to a Lohengrin who wasn't even the Prince's knight." Fakir gripped the comforter. "I'm trying to recall something, anything, but it's all a blank. I'm sorry."

Autor narrowed his eyes. "Then you will have help," he uttered, not loud enough to be heard. He could not ask Ahiru to come away now. Anyway, he did not want to call attention to himself when Mytho was there. Ahiru could catch up to him later. For now, he would manage on his own.

Turning away, he slipped down the hall.

xxxx

The corridors were mostly empty, Autor discovered. Either the servants were in their quarters or they were dealing with things elsewhere in the castle. That was certainly fine with him; he did not want to be caught wandering around, especially when he had the sheet music papers with him.

This really was an amazing place, he thought to himself. If the circumstances were not so dire, he would like to explore and enjoy the palace. Maybe if they all got out of this alright, Mytho would give them a tour.

At last he caught sight of shiny black varnish nearby. Slipping through a half-open door, he found himself in a well-furnished music room. Not only was there a piano, but a harp and what looked like violin cases. He pushed the door shut and affixed the latch into place before crossing the room to the piano.

Now that he was actually going to do it, his heart was gathering speed. His hands trembled as he set the pages on the shelf and sank down at the bench.

_I can't be afraid,_ he told himself. _I have to do this, no matter what it does to me, and give Fakir a fighting chance. If he can regain himself, then he can overpower his Story._

He looked over the few measures he had written on the first sheet. Before he tried to resume the composition, he had to brace himself for whatever might come at him. If he would be strangled, there would be little he could do. But feeling dizzy and going blind would not help any, either.

Actually, since something different had happened both times, a third time might bring about something else entirely. He could not expect anything specific; that would only take him further by surprise if something new came about.

With a whispered prayer on his lips, he began to play.

xxxx

Fakir stared off at nothing in particular, his vision glazed. Somehow he had to get out of bed. He had to find that demon and fight and defeat it. The entire kingdom, and maybe even the world, was at peril—not only him and these people with him. The same evil that Autor sensed was also felt by him.

He gripped a handful of the comforter as he weakly cursed. He could not get up; he was too invalid. Was this also part of the torment of his death, to be unable to do anything other than lay here and wait for it, knowing that his demise would be a domino effect on everyone else?

"Fakir zura?" The child with the drum leaned over the bed, staring at him in sadness and worry. "Are you going to be okay zura?"

Fakir clenched his teeth. "I don't know," he muttered.

"Of course you will!" the redhead exclaimed. "Everything's going to be fine!"

Without warning a jolt shot through Fakir's body. With a violent start he fell back into the mattress, his eyes wide in pain.

The girl looked at him in alarm. "Fakir?" she cried. "Fakir, what is it? What's wrong?"

The man was also leaning over, his eyebrows knit in concern. Mytho came closer, worried.

Fakir did not reply. He felt something, almost as if a door was shifting in his mind. Then there was a flash of something, a scene from the past. It was not a vision, as before, but something playing out in his mind's eye. He stiffened, focusing solely on it.

That child, the one with the scar, was outside. And he was staring at a young man collapsed on the ground. A young man whom Fakir recognized and remembered.

"Prince Siegfried," he whispered.

"Fakir?" Mytho leaned over the bed. "Fakir, I'm right here."

Fakir turned, staring at Mytho as though seeing him for the first time. "My Prince," he breathed. "I saw you. Just now I saw you, wearing a tattered cloak and having collapsed in the street."

Mytho's eyes widened. "You remember something?" he gasped.

Suddenly Ahiru shot upright, her eyes opening wide. "Oh my gosh!" she cried. "Autor!" She ran to the doorway, staring up and down the empty hall. She clutched the doorframe, her knuckles going white. "He's really doing it," she whispered. "He didn't wait for me. He . . ."

She pushed down the burst of frustration and hurt. Mytho was in here. Could Autor have told her anything with that as the case? Most likely not.

"Ahiru?"

She stiffened. Mytho was looking to her now, bewildered. Slowly she turned back, hoping she looked normal. "Um, yeah?" she said.

"What's this about Autor?" Mytho queried.

"Oh nothing!" Ahiru said, rubbing the back of her head. "I just remembered I needed to tell him about Fakir. . . ."

"He already knows, doesn't he." Fakir pushed himself upright. "He's using his powers again, on me."

Ahiru trembled. She was a terrible liar. Both Fakir and Charon were looking at her knowingly, while Uzura and Mytho looked confused.

"He's risking his life to save you!" she cried at last. "Fakir, the Story said it would kill him if he did this one more time! But he's doing it anyway, for you." She looked to Mytho in desperation. "Mytho, please! You believed in Autor before. You have to believe in him again now."

Mytho's eyes widened. "There's several rooms in the castle with pianos," he said. "We have to find which one he's in. If we can catch up to him in time, we might be able to save both him and Fakir."

"He'll have locked the door," Ahiru said. "I was supposed to stand guard and watch for people who might try to stop him, but . . ." Agonized, she ran into the hall.

Fakir pushed himself off the bed. "I'll find him," he vowed. "I physically didn't have the strength to get up until that memory came back to me. Whatever he did . . ." His eyes narrowed. "It helped me." He followed Ahiru into the hall. "We'll spread out and look for him. We won't let him die."

Ahiru looked to him in surprise and gratitude. "Fakir. . . ." She gave a determined nod. "Okay! Let's go!"

With that they each ran in opposite directions. Shaking his head, Mytho went to the doorway and looked out.

"They didn't wait to find out which rooms," he said. "Then again, it would take me a while to give them proper directions to each one. Maybe they can find the rooms faster this way."

"We'll look too." Charon came to the doorway, Uzura trailing after him. "If we can help it, no one will die, tonight or in the morning."

Mytho nodded. "Then come."

Sorrow flickered in his golden eyes as he led them out of the room. "Forgive me, Autor," he said under his breath. "I do believe in you. I don't know what came over me."

xxxx

Autor drew a gasping breath. Perspiration was trailing down his face and neck, but he did not dare stop playing to reach up and undo his cravat. His hands shook as he continued to guide his fingers over the keys. He was not even stopping any more to write the notes on the sheets. He did not dare do that, either—which testified to how worried he was. While Fakir tended to destroy the manuscripts of finished Stories, Autor thought that was ridiculous and that they should be preserved. Now, most of his manuscript would not be written down to begin with. But as long as it served its intended purpose, that was the most important thing.

Was Fakir's Story toying with him or was he really successful in attaining a higher endurance? He was more inclined to believe the latter; the Story had acted like it wanted to kill him right away and not drag it out. If that was true, he could go at any time.

But no, he could not go at all. He had to keep fighting, to make himself hold to the promise he had made to Ahiru. It would not be that hard, would it, to withstand death?

Well, it would likely be more difficult than staving off unconsciousness, and that was a battle he had been enduring almost since he had begun this venture. He slipped forward, his eyes fluttering as they tried to close.

He pushed himself upright, gritting his teeth. His vision was going in and out; when he saw at all, it was in double or through a variety of multi-colored spots. And the blood was starting to rise in his throat. He swallowed hard, sending it back down.

_I remember the last time I was this desperate to keep playing the piano,_ he frowned to himself. He had been struggling to compose the last piece for his ballet score, fighting against his own subconscious unwillingness to do so. He had not understood his hesitation until he had realized that it was a composition meant to murder. He was not the author of it, though his hand had held the pen and he had played the notes on the piano keys.

He had learned then just how powerful his Story had become and how far-reaching the consequences were of his selfish quest. It was ironic, that now he was desperate to play the piano to fight another living Story.

_I know now that I can use my powers without falling to the darkness,_ he thought. _But will it be enough to save us all?_

A sudden pounding on the door gave him a start. He looked back, continuing to play. It sounded too heavy for Ahiru. Was someone here to stop him? If so, would the latch hold?

"Hey! Hey, you in there!"

His eyes widened. "Fakir," he realized.

Fakir threw his weight against the double doors. "Stop playing and open up!" he yelled when they stubbornly remained shut. "Don't do this for me. That girl says you could die!"

"I can't stop," Autor retorted. "But I'm encouraged. Your speech pattern sounds more like yourself."

Fakir swore, slamming his body into the doors again. "I'm remembering," he said. "Really remembering, not just seeing visions. I could argue that it's still fake memories, but I . . . I know it's not. You gave me the strength to get up when I was too weak."

"Good!" Autor returned. "Keep embracing your memories, Fakir. I'm not done yet."

Fakir attacked the doors a third time. They popped open, flying wildly on their hinges. The green-eyed boy barely noticed as he ran inside the music room.

"Idiot!" he burst out.

Autor smirked. "Yes, that's the Fakir we know." He breathed heavily, the strain of what he was doing weighing him down further. But though he was increasingly dizzy and he could feel the blood rising into his throat again, he did not cease playing.

"Remember, Fakir!" he cried. "Remember your true self and those who love and care about you. Remember Ahiru. Remember Mytho and Charon. Remember . . ." He choked. "Remember me."

Fakir's eyes widened as he stumbled back, digging a hand into his hair. He was in pain. His heart was pounding in his ears, but this time it was not because of the mysterious dark presence. It beat almost as if echoing the stranger's plea. _Remember. Remember. . . ._

New flashes of images passed in front of his mind's eye. He stopped and stared, stunned by the sight. "What . . . what is this?" he rasped. "Are these . . . more things I experienced?"

He was with Prince Siegfried, speaking coldly and harshly and saying something about a heart only bringing him pain.

He was with the red-haired girl, swimming in an underground chamber.

He was speaking with the piano player in a study. Something about the place made him feel dark and cold. But . . . it was not that boy's fault. It was because of what the study represented. _Who_ it represented.

He was dancing a _pas de deux_ with the red-haired girl in a lake.

Suddenly his memories shifted. He saw that small child—himself?—writing at a desk. The window broke, admitting a murder of crows. He trembled, falling back at the sight that came next, the sight of his parents running to protect the kid and being pecked to death.

He fell to his knees. Even without fully remembering what was going on, it was horrifying, painful beyond what he had even thought he could still feel.

The kid was running, collapsing and crying in the grass at the park. Another boy found him there, arrogant in his speech and annoying in his mannerisms, but kind beyond that. For some reason he stayed, talking with the kid Fakir until he had calmed down.

". . . You," Fakir realized. "It was you." He looked to the student at the piano. His childhood acquaintance looked much the same now, only older.

And sick. His hands were violently shaking as he struggled to play the instrument. His flesh was pale and streaked with perspiration. A bit of blood was visible around his lips.

"What's wrong with you?" Fakir demanded in concern. "What's playing this doing to you?" He got up, making his way to the piano. But the other only played on, more desperate than before.

"I made a promise," the bespectacled boy said. "To Ahiru and to myself. I will bring you back from the darkness. In the past I nearly destroyed your life with my music. This time I'll save you with it."

"You're insane!" Fakir grabbed the other's shoulder. "Hey! _Hey!_ You're too sick to do this. Cut it out!"

The memories swirled around him, still of his childhood. He was talking with the arrogant boy again, apparently for the last time.

"_Are you always going to be hanging around here?"_

_The other kid adjusted his glasses. "I doubt we'll meet again," he said. "Not soon, anyway. If we ever do see each other, you probably won't remember me."_

"_I wouldn't forget an annoying guy like you," said Fakir, crossing his arms._

"_We'll put it to the test, shall we? I never did give you my name. If we meet in the future, I will introduce myself. It will be interesting to see if you remember me without having had my name."_

"_Tch. We'll see, alright."_

But he had not remembered. Shortly after that, he had found the Prince and his entire life had changed again.

"Prince Siegfried," he whispered. "No . . . Mytho. _Mytho!_"

A clatter of piano keys started him back to the present. The musician had slumped over the instrument, limp and lifeless. His right hand fell free, the fingers half-curled from his inability to straighten them.

Fakir gasped, pulling him away from the keys. "Hey!" he cried. "I told you to stop playing, you idiot. What did you think you could accomplish by doing this?"

A bit of blood trickled from the pale boy's lips. Fakir stared at it, his heart gathering speed. Pulling the body into his arms, he awkwardly laid the other on the floor, then bent over him.

"Wake up!" he ordered.

But there was no response other than a weak, pained groan. Abruptly Fakir's heart twisted, even as a name leaped into his mind.

"Autor!" he screamed. He did not even stop to think about it or how he knew it was the right name. He had never addressed any of these people by their names during this ordeal, albeit of course he had heard their names spoken. He had not used them merely because he had not felt close enough to them to do so.

"Autor, wake up!" He took hold of the other's shoulders, hauling his upper body upright.

This time Autor did not moan. He remained slack in Fakir's grasp, his breathing ragged and labored.

Fakir stared blankly. This could not be real. It could _not_ be, but he could not deny this the way he had denied his true identity.

Other memories assaulted him. Autor was teaching him how to harness a dangerous power, the power to write stories into reality.

Autor was saving his life from a madman.

Autor had lost his mind and was trying to kill Fakir and the others with music that became reality. But instead he came back to himself and gave up his own life for their sakes.

Autor and the red-haired girl were pleading with Fakir to remember himself even as he insisted he did not know them.

Autor had insisted on playing the piano, using it to try to unlock Fakir's memories. And . . . he had gotten so sick because he had been fighting against Fakir's Story, the Story that had turned against Fakir and erased his memories.

Fakir trembled, gazing down at the motionless form in his arms.

A haunted scream tore from his lips.


	10. Tense Hours

**Notes: I was honestly not sure whether Autor's heart would be faster or slower than it should be. I played with the line back and forth a few times.**

**Chapter Ten**

Fakir gripped his arms, standing blankly to the side as he watched the palace medics work. Two of them lifted the limp body into the large bed, one at the shoulders and the other gathering the legs. A third reached over, gently removing the eyeglasses and setting them on a table next to the bed.

Autor looked younger without them, somehow. And he looked so helpless lying motionless amid the myriad of covers. His neck-kerchief was loose, the ends hanging against his bare chest. He was still wearing his ruffled shirt, albeit it was unbuttoned. One of the medics leaned over, checking his heartbeat once again.

Fakir clenched his teeth behind closed lips. _You did this for me,_ he thought to himself. _Because I was too weak to fight against the force locking my memories away._

He still did not remember everything, certainly. He had seen images of himself with the red-haired girl, but he did not know who she was or what she meant to him. Now, however, it was driving him mad. And the guilt washing over him was almost more than he could stand. She and Autor had been right all along; he knew them. Oh, he could say that this was some new trickery, some way to get him to trust in them, but he knew it was not. Autor had been sincere. He would not have risked his life otherwise.

"How is he?" It felt strange to speak. He had barely said anything since his scream had brought a servant of the palace into the music room in alarm and he had stammered something about getting a doctor. He had insisted on staying right with the medics as they conducted their examination, which they had initially objected to but had at last agreed to allow if he would be silent and let them do what had to be done. Now that they had brought Autor here, back to his room, Fakir hoped that meant that perhaps things were not as serious as he had feared.

The physician monitoring Autor's heart rate straightened with a sigh. "To be honest, none of us can determine what is wrong," he said. "Something was a terrible, taxing strain on his body, but there is no indication of what it could have been. You said he was playing the piano when he collapsed?"

"He was trying to help me," Fakir muttered. "He played the piano because that's where his power is. He was trying to save me and restore the memories I'd lost."

A second medic gave him a searching and concerned look. "He has that kind of power? And from music?"

Fakir swore in his mind, realizing his mistake in revealing that information. "Yeah, he does," he said, his expression dark as he silently challenged the man to raise a complaint.

But at last the medic just sighed. Their business was not to judge, but to heal. "His heart is still faster than it should be, though it's slowed down compared to how it was racing when we first found you both." He looked to the motionless teen as he continued speaking to Fakir. "And his breathing is labored."

"Will he live?" Fakir asked. Normally he would be vocally frustrated with their slow method of getting around to what he was trying to learn. But right now he was sobered and almost silent.

"He may," said the third. "Or he may not. For the time being we can only watch and wait. If he regains consciousness, we'll take it as a sign he is recovering. If he never awakens . . ." He let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished, yet concluded in what had not been uttered.

"I'll stay with him," Fakir said.

The second doctor nodded. "I had a feeling you would," he said. "Let us know immediately if there's any change in his condition."

They departed soon after. Fakir slumped into a chair next to the bed, running his hands into his hair.

"I remember you," he rasped. "Not just blank memories, but I remember _you,_ who you are to me. The arrogant kid whose name I never knew. The crazy music student following me around and watching me." His head dropped. "The determined, brave guy risking his life for my sake, more than once.

"Autor. . . ."

He stared at the floor. "You idiot, why did you do it?" he exclaimed. _"Why?"_

Footsteps in the doorway made him jerk upright. The red-haired girl ran in, horrified at the scene. "Autor!" she cried, tears pricking her blue eyes. "I knew he'd get hurt. I just knew it!" She went to the bedside, trembling as she raised his limp hand and took it in hers. It was clammy and cold. If Autor was not clearly breathing, she would fear the worst. She was still afraid it could happen. Fakir's Story's threat had been ringing in her ears ever since she had been told about Autor's collapse.

Even as she cradled his hand she looked over at Fakir. She longed to embrace him, to try to comfort him, but at the same time she was reluctant, not knowing how he would react to it.

"Fakir," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "do you . . ."

"The two of you were right," Fakir cut in. "I know you. I'm Fakir. He, Autor, was . . . is . . ." But he trailed off. Autor was his cousin, his friend. But the girl . . . what was she to him? Why could he not remember?

He took a deep breath. "I don't remember everything," he said.

Her shoulders slumped. "I figured you didn't," she said quietly. "Just from how you looked at me when I came in. You're not all yourself yet, Fakir." Still clutching Autor's hand, longing in vain for some movement, she sank onto the edge of the bed.

For some reason Fakir did not fully understand, he felt the need to stand up, to go over to her and try to comfort her. But when he got to her side, when she looked up at him with those wide blue eyes that he was supposed to know but did not, he was all at once at a loss.

". . . You knew this would hurt him," he said as a statement, not a question.

She gave a weak nod. "Yeah, because of when he did this two times on the train," she said. "He stopped when I begged him to after he nearly choked. The Story threatened him. It said if he tried any more, he'd die. But when he saw that you were so sick and going to die because of the Story threatening you, he said he was going to try again. He . . . he said he would keep going until he couldn't any more."

Her shoulders shook. "I told him he could die. He . . . he said he wouldn't. But . . . the doctors said he might!"

Fakir grunted, awkwardly laying a hand on her shoulder. "He won't," he said, not even sure where the words were coming from. "He won't betray you like that . . . like I've betrayed you by not remembering."

She started at the feel of his hand, but then relaxed into it. "Do you know me at all, Fakir?" she asked sadly.

He hesitated for a long moment. "I remember things we did together," he said. "I remember we danced. But . . . I'm sorry, I still don't know who you are."

She shut her eyes tightly yet was still unable to keep the tears from falling. But then, fighting for a smile, she looked up at him again.

"You'll know, Fakir," she said. "You got some of your memories back, so the others are still there too. There's hope."

And somehow, seeing her struggle to smile when she really wanted to cry, Fakir felt like crying too.

Instead he stayed there for a long moment in silence. She reached up, resting her other hand on his.

xxxx

Ahiru started awake, nearly pitching forward off the bed. She gave a sharp cry of surprise, clutching tighter at Autor's and Fakir's hands as awareness returned to her. Slowly she sank back in relief. _It was just a dream. . . ._

Wait . . . Fakir was still beside her?

She looked over her shoulder. He was there, regarding her in concern. Now he was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking a bit red. She had slumped back against him as she had recovered from suddenly awakening. Her cheeks colored at the realization.

"What woke you up?" he asked, looking anxious to find a subject to discuss.

She shook her head, pushing herself upright. "I . . . I had a bad dream," she said. "Autor was dead. . . . His hand slipped down and he went so still. I . . . I begged him to wake up, but he . . . he couldn't." She looked to the motionless hand in her grasp. It twitched slightly with movement but then was limp again.

"He's still alive," Fakir replied, his voice quiet. "I told you, he's not going to die."

There was an urgency in his tone more than a certainty. Ahiru bit her lip. "Fakir, this wasn't your fault," she said.

"Then whose was it?" Fakir said bitterly. "It was because all of my memories were blocked that he did this. He was trying to save me."

"It's not your fault!" Ahiru exclaimed. "It's the fault of what did this to you!" She blinked back tears. "But Autor risking himself like this. . . . If he never wakes up, I . . . I'll wonder if I could've done anything for him if I'd been there. I wonder that right now," she added in a mumble.

"He will wake up," Fakir said with an intensity that surprised even him. "You said the Story said it would kill him if he tried again. The doctors don't even know why he is still alive. But I know why. It's because he made that promise to you. Even when I didn't remember anything, I could tell he thought a lot of you."

Ahiru blinked in surprise. But then, managing a smile, she looked up at him. "It's also because he doesn't want you to suffer, Fakir," she said.

Fakir grunted and looked away.

"Fakir! You don't think Autor did all of this just because of me, do you?" Ahiru exclaimed. "He cares about you too!"

"I know that." But Fakir was speaking barely above a whisper.

Ahiru frowned. "You're acting so strange!" she burst out. "Why? It's not like it's something to be ashamed of!"

Fakir whirled back, his eyes flashing. "He nearly dies because of me! Is that something I should be proud of?"

"You should be glad someone cares about you that much!" Ahiru shot back, her voice rising.

"I should be glad I almost caused someone's death _again?_"

"He chose to do this! You didn't make him!"

"Idiot! And yet you sit there blaming yourself just like I'm blaming myself!"

Ahiru flinched. "That's different!" she protested.

"It's not different!" Fakir retorted. "You think you drove him to pull such a stupid stunt. I _know_ that _I_ did."

"Why do you always have to be right?" Ahiru wailed.

"Because I _am._"

Ahiru opened her mouth, ready to yell back. But instead she rocked back, blinking. "We're yelling at each other again," she said. "Just like when you remembered everything."

Fakir blinked too, then frowned. "We're always like this?" he said.

She nodded. "Yeah! It's weird." She frowned. "I've kind of missed it." She looked up at him. "I guess because without it, it meant something was wrong."

"You really are weird," Fakir grumped.

But it was strange, he reflected, how natural the argument had felt. Why would he have even lost his temper like that if she were not someone he was very close to? He had ended up revealing some of his deepest feelings, and he could hardly believe he would have such slim self-control in general.

Then again, what was he even saying? He only had a portion of his memories back. How did he know what he was really like?

He frowned harder. The fact that his memories had not been restored in full meant that every one of the Story's dire promises could yet come to pass.

He opened his mouth. "It's not a good time to bring this up . . ."

"Then why are you?" Ahiru retorted.

". . . But if I don't recover the rest of my memories, I'll supposedly die by morning," he finished. "And the entire kingdom will follow soon after that."

Ahiru rocked back, the lump rising in her throat. "You won't die," she said. "None of that will happen! If Autor got back so many things for you, shouldn't that help you be able to get back the rest?"

"It's not that simple. Autor was taking a gamble and he knew it."

Ahiru glowered at the floor as if it was somehow the enemy. "Do you remember how to use your power?" she asked then.

"Only some." Fakir stared at his hands. "I might mess something up if I try."

"But that's still your chance!" Ahiru said. "If you can defeat your Story with a new Story, then you can cancel out the threat and get more time to remember stuff! Or maybe, if the old Story is defeated, the seal on your memories will break and you'll get them all back right away!"

"Or I could make everything worse and send us all to Hell in a handbasket." Fakir crossed his arms.

"Autor was counting on you using your powers to defeat the Story!" Ahiru said. "If you remember some, maybe it's enough! You could tell me and I could try to fill in the rest." She looked at him hopefully. "I ended up learning a lot about Story-Spinning because you told me stuff."

Fakir glanced to her, first disbelieving and then amazed. She always seemed to have some idea in mind, even after she had been kicked down a multitude of times.

"You never give up, do you?" he mused.

She blinked, taken aback. "Eh?"

"I mean that in a good way," Fakir said matter-of-factly. But some feeling crept into his tone as he explained, "I've been hurting you so much, but you haven't ever stopped trying to find a way to save me."

"Well, of course I haven't!" Ahiru retorted. "Neither did Autor."

Fakir glanced woefully at the unconscious boy. He looked so young, far too much so to have gotten into such a predicament. And Ahiru looked even younger than him.

". . . How old are you anyway?" Fakir asked.

Ahiru blinked in surprise. "Um . . . I think in human years I'm thirteen," she said.

Fakir raised an eyebrow. "In _human_ years?" he repeated. "What other kind of calculations could you make?" He gave her a deadpan, unimpressed look. "You're not going to say you're an alien, are you?"

"No!" Ahiru retorted. "I'm not!"

She looked down at her lap, debating within herself. Was now really a good time to reveal the truth to him? Maybe she had better; after all, there was the chance it could spark more of his lost memories.

"Actually, I'm a duck," she mumbled.

Fakir gave her a look that was a cross between utter shock and disbelief and an unimpressed glower. "I know your name means 'duck'," he said, "but can't you do better than that?"

"It's the truth!" Ahiru snapped, looking to him. "I'm a duck, or I was until Drosselmeyer made me human so I could become Princess Tutu and restore the Prince's heart! And then I met you and we didn't like each other at all, but we started getting really close and . . ." She stopped to take a breath. When she spoke again, she had slowed down.

"You wrote me into a human again when it was all over and we weren't in a Story anymore and I had to go back to being a duck."

Fakir stared at her. "I did?"

"With your powers," Ahiru said. "See, they can do all kinds of things!"

Fakir frowned. "It looks like it."

He gave a start as the ground rumbled and shook, disrupting the palace built over it. The chandelier swayed back and forth in time to the sounds of furniture and small objects rattling with the movements from the earthquake.

Ahiru leaped up when it ended. "Something really bad is happening!" she cried, rushing to the window.

Fakir got up as well. "That wasn't a natural earthquake, was it?" he growled, gripping the windowsill as he stared into the darkness of the night. It was this Story, the one that had started everything to begin with. But why? Why was it enacting whatever plan of destruction it had here in Mytho's kingdom? Why hadn't it done something before?

"Nothing that's been happening tonight is natural!" Ahiru moaned. "And I need to try to help you learn more about your powers so you can fight your Story."

Fakir glowered at a flash of lightning before turning away from the window. "Alright," he said. "I'll find some paper and a quill."

xxxx

It had not taken long for word to spread concerning what had happened. Before long the entire palace court knew that one of the visitors had collapsed in the music room, playing the piano. And from there, it took a much shorter time for them to deduce that the victim must be the very person who had turned the kingdom upsidedown in the past. Horrified, the king and queen confronted Mytho on the subject as soon as they learned of it.

Mytho swallowed hard, feeling a prick of guilt for having not told them before. "Yes," he admitted, "it's true. Autor is the one who previously disrupted the kingdom." He looked his parents firmly in their eyes. "But he was telling the truth during the feast. He has his sanity back."

"And what was he doing at a piano tonight?" the king frowned, his thick eyebrows knitting together.

"He was trying to save Fakir!" Mytho said. "And in turn, all of the kingdom. The Story has threatened to destroy everything and everyone by morning."

The queen's eyes widened. "This must be stopped!" she exclaimed. "We'll have all of our sorcerers assail this Story and bring it to a halt long before dawn."

"No." Mytho shook his head. "Fakir is the one who has to fight it. Autor managed to restore a good portion of his memories, enough so that he's going to try to do battle with it."

The king frowned. "In his mental condition, he's not in a state to do such a thing."

"But regaining his memories is bringing him back to himself," Mytho said. "He isn't like he was when you met him earlier tonight, Father." He looked at the man pleadingly. "I beg you to give him a chance."

The king sighed. "Our sorcerers should be standing by anyway, just in case this fails," he said.

"Unfortunately, they would only make it worse." Mytho glanced towards the upset sky out the window. "If Fakir can't stop this, I'm afraid no one can."

The king countered, "What about the kingdom rising up in rebellion? Can he stop that as well?"

Mytho's eyes widened. "What are you talking about, Father?"

The man stepped to the window, peering down at the crowd gathering around the castle gates. "Word has spread fast," he said. "No one wants this Autor to be allowed to stay here. Some are saying he should be turned away and left to die. Others feel that we should formally execute him for his past sins."

The color drained from Mytho's face. "What?" He ran to the window, gripping the sill at the sight of the angry, torch-bearing villagers. "There was just an earthquake. Shouldn't they be helping those in need instead of insisting on such cruel things?"

"Siegfried, these people are afraid our keeping Autor in the palace is the reason for the earthquake," the queen said, her voice quiet and solemn.

"That's outrageous!" Mytho exclaimed. He turned from the window in determination. "I'll have to go out there and reason with them. This can't be allowed, especially not when there's so much at stake."

His parents were silent. Confusion and fear stabbed into Mytho's heart. "Surely you can't condone such things!" he said, looking back to them. "You've taught me better than that!"

"Of course we wouldn't turn Autor away when he's in need of help," the queen said. "But these people are panicked and afraid. They may be beyond listening to reason. What Autor caused in the past has left them understandably leery of anything concerning Stories becoming real—and of those who write them."

"Such fears resulted in secret societies such as the Bookmen being born," Mytho said. "And they caused more problems when they took justice into their own hands than if they had left it alone."

He supposed he had to be grateful to them on some level; after all, he never would have entered the real world and met Rue and Fakir and Ahiru if they had not meddled. But that was beside the point.

"Anyway, the people have always listened to me," he continued now. "I've been able to guide them through many a crisis. Surely they will listen now, as well."

With that he turned and walked out of the throne room, heading for the front hall and the doors leading outside. The closer he drew, the more audible the voices became. His eyes narrowed in silent response to their demands.

"Kill the sorcerer!"

"Ban him from the kingdom!"

"Exile all of his friends with him! Who knows what _they're_ capable of!"

Mytho pushed open the doors, stepping onto the wide landing. "And will you exile me as well?" he called, loud enough to be heard over the frenetic cries.

The voices lessened as the Prince's words sank in. Then the people began speaking all at once again.

"You, our Prince? Of course not!"

"Never!"

"That's ridiculous!"

"You would have to exile me," Mytho said, quieting them completely this time. "I am his friend too."

The villagers stared at him, stunned and bewildered. "But our Prince," one woman said at last, "he's done so much evil to this kingdom. For months, everything was mass confusion because of that one boy."

"Yes, that's true," Mytho agreed. "But you either don't know the full story or haven't given the proper attention to the last part. His very Story came to life and possessed his body towards the completion of his ballet score, after having heavily influenced him all along the way. But when it tried to murder several people, including me, he would have none of it. He fatally stabbed himself to bring his Story's reign to an end and save us.

"He has been very sobered and sorrowful for what his Story and he himself did. A miracle preserved his life back then and he has been trying to put it and his relationships with people back together ever since. And you're suggesting we take that from him now?"

Mytho's eyes narrowed as regret and shame flickered within them. "I myself forgot. Even though I spoke to him several times after that chaotic time, and witnessed his change of heart, I still allowed myself to doubt when strange things began happening again. I unfairly believed he was guilty. I'm sure Fakir's wayward Story—our new enemy—was responsible for manipulating my thoughts, but I don't consider that an excuse.

"The truth is exactly what he has been saying—he has done nothing wrong this time. On the contrary, he has only used his powers to try to save his friend, and all of us by extension."

He looked out over the crowd. Some still looked skeptical, but most looked guilty and shamed now. Encouraged, Mytho said, "I realize you're afraid. Everyone is. Even I am—though not for myself. And not because Autor is staying in the palace. He will do you no harm. I swear that on my life!"

Now there were gasps all around. But the people's trust in their beloved Prince was strong. The woman who seemed to be the spokesperson stepped forward.

"There is no need for such a thing, our Prince," she said. "We believe in you."

Mytho gave a pleased, relieved nod. "I'm glad to hear that," he said. "Now, fret no more over Autor. Instead we should be making certain no one has been injured in the earthquake. I will join you in the search."

The people began to disperse, talking among themselves. Mytho let out a quiet sigh as he watched them go. One tragedy had been averted, but the night was still young. There was no telling what the remaining hours would bring.

"I guess it shouldn't surprise me that the one time I'm gone all day, everything starts happening at once."

At the voice in the shadows, Mytho jumped a mile and whirled, his eyes wide in surprise. "Rue?" he called.

His betrothed Princess stepped out from behind a pillar, the light from inside the palace gracing her hair and face and adding a sparkle to her weary crimson eyes.

"I was going to help you talk sense into that mob," she said, a trace of a smile coming over her features, "but then I saw you were doing just fine."

Mytho went to her, taking her hands in his. "Rue . . ." he said softly, smiling now as well. "Welcome home."


	11. Force of Hand

**Notes: Sorry this chapter turned out slightly shorter than what has become the average. But next chapter is going to be such a wild ride for all of our three main principle characters and their friends and allies!**

**Chapter Eleven**

Fakir swore, throwing the white quill to the desk in sheer discouragement and aggravation. As he leaned forward on the wood, he rested his crossed hands on his forehead.

"It's no use," he growled. "I can think of a lot of things I want to write, but when it actually comes to trying to put it down on paper, it won't come."

Ahiru bit her lip as she sat next to him, on a chair between the bed and the desk. She had been trying to coach him through the writing process for what seemed ages now. She was a terrible teacher; she knew that all too well. And the longer things went on with Fakir being unable to write, the closer they came to morning.

"You've really only been able to write about me," she said, a bit embarrassed to say it. It could come out wrong and make it look like she was bragging or prideful or something.

Fakir turned to look at her with a frown. "Why?" he demanded.

Ahiru went a deeper red and looked down at her hands in her lap. "I . . . I'm not really sure," she said sheepishly. "I asked you once and you said it was because I changed you for the better."

Fakir glanced back at the blank sheet of paper. "How will that even help us?" he said. "It's my Story; _I'm_ supposed to fight it, not you."

"Yeah. . . ." Ahiru shifted position on the chair. "I don't know. I wish we could fight it together. I mean, I want to help you fight it. I don't want to just have to sit here, helpless."

"It looks like that's what all of us are going to be doing," Fakir said.

Ahiru frowned. They had to find some way around it! Autor had risked his life to restore enough of Fakir's memories that he could try to end this and save all of them. If only there was something Ahiru could do, too. . . .

She looked up, her eyes wide. "What if you wrote me into Princess Tutu?" she said urgently.

Fakir raised an eyebrow. "And that would help, how?"

"I can become her without using Mytho's heart shard of Hope," Ahiru exclaimed. "Maybe I could dance with the Story and try to find out what's wrong and if it will just stop hurting everyone and . . ."

"That would be dangerous," Fakir objected. "It doesn't seem like it's in any state to want to listen, let alone dance."

"At least let me try!" Ahiru begged, grabbing Fakir's arm in desperation. "We don't have much time."

Fakir clenched his teeth. "Autor tried, and look what happened to him. I am _not_ letting that happen to you."

Ahiru opened her mouth to protest, but then just stared at Fakir. Did any part of him remember who she was? Or was he just protective because he realized he did know her, even though he could not remember?

Realizing she was looking at him, he looked back for only a moment before he flushed and turned away again. She was right; there was barely any time at all. But why did he have to risk her safety too? Why couldn't he do this without endangering anyone else? The Story was after him in the end. He, and only he, should be the one bringing it down.

Before he could speak, however, the door opened. Both he and Ahiru looked up with a defensive start. The raven-haired girl in the doorway meant nothing to Fakir, but Ahiru leaped to her feet. "Rue!" she cried in surprised greeting. "You're back!"

The girl called Rue came further into the room, surveying the scene and Autor's still form with troubled red eyes. "Mytho told me what's been happening," she said. "How badly is Autor hurt?"

"He might not wake up," Ahiru whispered, glancing to him as well before turning back to Rue. "I'm so worried about him. . . ." Louder she said, "But he got back a lot of Fakir's memories! We're working on writing a Story to fight the mean Story!"

"I don't know who you are," Fakir flatly interjected, looking the newcomer up and down.

"Autor didn't restore any of your memories of me?" Rue returned, sounding and looking matter-of-fact herself. "That's just as well."

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "I wonder," he retorted.

"Autor couldn't control what memories came back!" Ahiru hurriedly put in.

Rue blinked in surprise. "I see," she said.

Fakir grunted, looking back to the desk. "I need quiet," he said. "I have to write."

"Well, even without half your memories, you're still mostly the same," Rue noted.

"You didn't see him when he thought he was Lohengrin," Ahiru said. "He was a lot different."

Fakir blocked out their voices as he looked to the sheets of paper. Ahiru said she wanted to help him in the fight. Was there a way he could accept her help without her getting hurt?

What was this vague memory of writing to give strength to . . . to a little duck? She was so fragile, trying to dance and then being thrown about by . . . giant crows?

He gasped, going pale as one of the night's earlier conversations returned to him. A duck. . . . "Ahiru?" he cried.

Ahiru snapped to attention. "Fakir, what is it?" she exclaimed.

He turned, finding himself looking right into Ahiru's wide blue eyes.

The same eyes he had seen on the duck.

He frowned, looking back to the paper. "Nothing," he muttered.

So she really was a duck, like she said. Not that he had thought anymore that she was lying, but it was still something that could scarcely be taken in. She was a human now; she certainly did not look like a duck. In fact, she had said that he had written her back into a human after she had turned into a duck again.

But wasn't that unnatural? Shouldn't she still be a duck, what she had been born as?

"Fakir, something is wrong." Ahiru sat next to him. "Can't you tell me what it is?"

Fakir grunted. It was something he did want to talk with her about, but he did not want to say anything on the subject while this Rue girl was here. There was something about her he did not like.

A glance over his shoulder revealed that she was by the bed, looking woefully and silently at Autor's still form. Then at last she turned away, walking towards the door.

"Let me know when he wakes up," she said.

"We will," Ahiru said.

Fakir noted her usage of the word _when_ as opposed to _if._

"Good luck with your Story," Rue said to Fakir, though she did not glance back.

Fakir narrowed his eyes. When she was gone, and her footsteps faded, he turned with expectance to Ahiru. "What's her deal with Autor?" he asked. "Is she in love with him?"

Ahiru's eyes widened. "N-No," she said. "She and Mytho are . . ." She trailed off, biting her lip. "Autor is in love with Rue, though. But he knows he can't have her."

Fakir's expression did not change. "Too bad for him."

He tapped the quill on the paper. "You said I turned you human again," he said.

Ahiru blinked. "Yeah," she said.

"Isn't that turning nature on its head?" Fakir's head shot up as he looked to her. "Didn't I meddle in something I shouldn't have done?"

Ahiru flinched. "You were worried about that," she said. "You didn't make me human again for a long time, even though the Story kept trying to get you to write it."

"It _what?_" Fakir looked disturbed. "Is this the same Story tormenting us now?"

"I was scared it was," Ahiru said, "but it's not! It's the other Story, Fakir—the one you wrote to end Drosselmeyer's Story. That's why it made everyone remember all those things, so it wouldn't be forgotten."

Fakir frowned. "Even so, I don't understand how it could be right for you to be human."

Ahiru flushed and looked down. "Sometimes I really don't, either," she confessed. "But you used to say that I must have not been meant to be a duck and that's why I didn't have to stay one. Autor told me he thought it was because . . ." She burned a deeper red. "Because I still needed to share my hope with people and inspire and help them."

Fakir's eyes widened. Of course! Now he knew what to write. It was so simple, especially in light of the memory he had just regained. He picked up the quill and reached for the inkwell.

Outside, the lightning flashed again. But something far more sinister caught the teens' eyes. They looked up in shock. A green-hued image of Fakir's doppelganger was projected over the town.

"Let's stop playing games now, shall we?" it exclaimed. "I'm holding the kingdom hostage. Fakir, come to me to fight our duel of decision within the hour. If you don't, I will destroy the entire area piece by piece. I'll save the palace for last, so you can watch every moment of it."

Fakir leaped to his feet. "Don't you dare," he snarled.

"Then come to the top of the mountain just outside the town," his Story grinned. With that the projection vanished.

Fakir did not wait to contemplate this development. He snatched the inkwell, dipping the quill in it and scratching out a sentence on the page. Then he leaped to his feet, grabbing the sword by the side of the bed.

Ahiru cried out in horror and alarm. "Fakir, what are you doing? You can't fight him that way! You have to write!" She tried in vain to catch his arm.

"I did write!" Fakir retorted. "I wrote that you gave me the strength to defeat the Story in battle." He stormed to the door.

"No!" Ahiru chased after him. "In Drosselmeyer's Story, you were the Knight who couldn't fight!" Her blue eyes filled with tears. "And your Story ended Drosselmeyer's. What if you're still playing the Knight role? Maybe the Story's trying to trick you into going out because it knows you can't win!"

Fakir turned to look at her. The fear and panic he saw in her face twisted his heart. But it did not weaken his resolve.

"I won't succumb to the fate of Lohengrin," he said. "I will fight my Story with both the sword the pen." He reached out, brushing aside the tears falling from Ahiru's eyes. "You will give me the strength to face this foe."

"I don't want you to fight!" Ahiru wailed.

"Right now, we aren't being given much choice," Fakir growled. "And I have to hurry. It's going to take a while to reach the mountain, especially with the damage from the earthquake." His visage softened. "I'll come back," he assured her. "You stay here with Autor." With that he stepped into the hall. It only took him a moment to gather his bearings and run for the stairs.

Ahiru still ran after him. "Fakir!" she called. "Fakir, don't!"

But she soon ground to a halt. Conflicted, she looked back over her shoulder. Autor could not be left alone. If she was going after Fakir, then she needed to find someone else to stay with Autor first. Maybe Rue would. She did not like to ask Charon; he would be worried about Fakir, too. And if Charon were there, Uzura likely would be too—unless she was exploring all over the castle. As much as Ahiru was fond of Uzura, she knew the little girl could be very stressful to Autor if he came to with her making noise.

"What to do, what to do?" Ahiru moaned. In order to find Rue, she would have to leave Autor for a few minutes.

Charon's door opened. "What's going on out here?" the man frowned in concern.

Ahiru jumped a mile before turning to face him. "Oh, it's terrible!" she said. "Fakir wrote that I'd give him strength so he could fight his Story! And he's taking his sword and going off to the mountain to do it!" She wrung her hands. "I'd go with him, but Autor . . ."

Charon had stiffened, staring in the direction of the stairs. "Fakir is going to fight his Story with a blade?" he said. "Doesn't he remember . . . ?"

"I don't think so!" Ahiru said. "And he thinks the best way is fighting it with both the sword and the pen!"

Charon was already dashing down the corridor. "I'll go after Fakir," he said. "You wait here with Autor."

Ahiru reached for him in desperation. "But . . . !"

"A duel is no place for you, young lady," Charon said over his shoulder.

Ahiru's shoulders slumped. "It's no place for Fakir either," she said.

She half-turned but hovered in the doorway, torn on what to do. Still, unless someone else appeared who could help, there was not much that could be done. For now she would have to pray that her strength would help Fakir fight his Story—and that he would not meet Lohengrin's dire end, or any end at all.

She shuffled back into the room and sank into the chair by the bed. Throughout this horrible adventure, Autor had given her strength. He had been there for her as they had tried to figure out what to do for Fakir. Now, seeing him so silent and unable to speak to her, she felt more lost than she even had before. At the moment, she truly felt alone.

"Oh Autor," she whispered sadly as she gazed at her friend, "you have to be okay. You have to wake up and get better, so we can all go home together." She trembled. "And Fakir has to win that fight."

And she wanted to go to him. Yet, could she really do anything when she got there? She bit her lip. She felt that she had to go and at least try. Autor had not known that he could do anything, either. But he had risked his life to try.

"I want to say I'm mad at you," she mumbled. "I want to yell at you and tell you that you shouldn't have done it. But . . ." Her shoulders shook. "You gave Fakir so much of himself back. Without that, we probably wouldn't have any hope at all. So even though I am mad at you, I can't say you shouldn't have done it. I just wish . . ." She looked down, clenching her fists on her knees. "I wish it hadn't come to this."

She turned back to Autor. He was so pale, so still. But he was still breathing; she could see his chest rising and falling.

"It's like when we were waiting for you to wake up after you stabbed yourself to stop your Story," she said. "Only back then you weren't so quiet like this. You were always crying out in pain. . . ." She bit her lip. She had been with him many times back then, trying to get through to him and bring him out of his delirium. A couple of times, Mytho or Fakir had needed to hold him down so he would not further hurt himself by thrashing around.

She swallowed hard. When the light was just right, she could see the faded scar on his chest where the blade had gone through. She did not _want_ to look at it, but it was hard not to. And that only made the memories of the past all the more pronounced and painful.

She had known of the scar's presence before, but only because she had asked him if one had been left. He had hesitated, as though debating whether to tell her, but then had admitted it was true.

"_Does it bother you?"_ she had asked then.

"_Only because of what led to it being there in the first place,"_ he had told her. _"I deserve to have a constant reminder of what my powerlust almost caused. Not that my own thoughts aren't reminder enough."_ And he had looked disgusted for a moment before it had passed and he had been the usual, logic-driven Autor again.

"Were you trying to redeem yourself or something, Autor?" she spoke aloud again. "You said you wanted to know if you could use your power without going crazy."

She stared at his left hand, also scarred from where he had stabbed it when he had tried so desperately to stop playing the piano. The mark was even fainter than the one on his chest, but the way the light was shining, she could still see it.

"You didn't have to do something like this," she said. "You already made good, Autor. You redeemed yourself when you fought your Story to save all of us from being killed!"

She gave a sad sigh. "But Fakir really did need your help," she whispered. "And I know you were worried about him. So it all comes back to knowing you really did have to do this.

"But I'm tired!" she cried. "I'm tired of my friends being hurt. I just want it to stop!"

And for a moment she trembled, releasing some of the pain and anguish that had plagued her over the last, endless few days. She had to get up, she had to find help for Autor and then go after Fakir. But in order to gain the strength to even stand, she had to have this moment first.

Her tears were almost spent when a small form appeared in the doorway. "Uzura!" she said with a start of surprise. Quickly she wiped at her eyes.

The child puppet stared at the scene. "They're saying Autor's hurt zura," she said. "They said he might die zura!"

Ahiru felt the arrow that had been in her heart since Fakir had awakened with no memory of them go in deeper. "He's very sick, Uzura," she said quietly. "He was trying to help Fakir."

"Did he help him zura?" Uzura came into the room and climbed onto the bed, gazing down at his lifeless form. She leaned over him, listening to make sure he was breathing.

"He sure did," Ahiru said. Thinking quickly, she got to her feet. "Uzura, can you do me a favor?" she asked. "Can you wait here with him while I go find Rue?"

Uzura blinked. "I'll stay zura," she said.

"And please be quiet, okay?" Ahiru said. "Autor can't have a lot of noise right now."

Uzura nodded. Without speaking, she lay down next to the boy and snuggled close, hugging him with one arm.

Ahiru managed a smile before hurrying into the corridor.

xxxx

She found Rue just leaving the throne room, having given her report on her visit to the neighboring towns. The older girl looked exhausted and weary, something she had likely tried to hide while speaking. When she heard Ahiru calling, she straightened and frowned in concern. From Ahiru's tone, it was serious.

She soon deduced the story from amid Ahiru's frantic rambles. Still frowning—and berating Fakir's idiocy in her mind—she turned to the stairs.

"If you need someone more responsible than Uzura to watch over Autor while you go after the Prodigal Son, I'll do it," she said, drawing up her heavy skirts as she began to step up.

Ahiru did not bother trying to sort out the unknown reference. "Are you sure, Rue?" she asked, hurrying after her friend. "You look really tired!" She felt guilty now for even considering that Rue could help her. She had known Rue had been gone all day; she should have considered that the Princess would be exhausted.

"I'll be fine," Rue said, still ascending the stairs. "Just go and do what you need to do."

Ahiru bit her lip. "Well, that's the thing," she mumbled. "I don't even know what I _can_ do. Fakir wouldn't listen to me and left anyway. And when he wrote that I gave him strength, I don't think he meant that I did it by actually being right with him."

Rue stopped at the top of the staircase and looked back. "Did he take the paper and ink?" she queried.

"No," Ahiru sighed. "He thought the rest of the fight could be in a duel."

"Then take those things to him," Rue said. "You can figure out what else to do when you get there. But be careful." She walked ahead and into Autor's room, stopping and blinking to discover Uzura curled up beside him. That was not what she had expected.

"He's not awake zura," Uzura greeted sadly. "But he's breathing zura."

"Good," Rue said.

Ahiru followed her in and crossed to the desk. With another sad sigh she gathered the paper, quill, and inkwell, arranging them in the satchel Fakir carried them in.

"But if he's right in the middle of fighting, he won't be able to stop and write!" she said.

That was all too true. But Rue said, "You won't know until you get there."

Ahiru nodded. "I'll just have to try my best," she resolved. Hauling the satchel up by its strap, she turned to face Rue and smiled. "Thank you, Rue. I hope I won't be gone long. I'll come back with Fakir no matter what!"

Rue allowed a smile. "Of course you will," she said.

Ahiru made her way to the bed, smiling down at Uzura. "Thank you for watching Autor, Uzura," she said. "You've been a big help."

Uzura sat up. "Are you going now zura?" she asked.

Ahiru nodded. "I have to help Fakir," she said. "Be good for Rue, okay?"

"I'll be good zura!" Uzura chirped.

Ahiru smiled, then reached and took hold of Autor's hand. "Please keep fighting, Autor," she whispered. "You'd better not break your promise."

She stiffened in stunned surprise when she felt his fingers weakly press against her hand. His eyes opened halfway, glassy but looking at her.

All at once her heart was swelling. Everything would be alright; it _had_ to be. Autor reviving, even if only for a moment, was surely an indication of that.

She leaned over him, still clutching his hand. "Oh Autor. . . ." She gave a shaky, but genuine, smile. "You said we'd save Fakir together, remember? I'm going to do what I can for him right now. You've helped him, Autor; you've helped him so much. Now it's my turn."

Autor gazed at her a moment, his eyes flickering with emotion and understanding. There was so much he wanted to say, and to ask, but right now he could not. "Be . . . careful," he rasped, barely able to get the words out.

"I will," Ahiru assured him. "You just rest and get better." Trying to sound stern she added, "And then I'll scold you for worrying us so much!"

Autor smirked at her as he slipped back into unconsciousness. Ahiru glowered at him, but her heart was not in it. She broke into a smile instead.

"He'll be okay," she said in relief and joy. "Thanks again, Rue! I'd better hurry."

"You'd better," Rue agreed, watching the younger girl flee to the door and into the hall. She smiled a bit herself, looking back to Autor.

"You always have been stubborn, Autor," she commented. "Of course you'll be alright."

Uzura looked over at her. "Will he wake up again soon zura?"

"Probably not," Rue said. "He needs to sleep so he can recover faster."

"Ohh." Uzura patted Autor on the shoulder, her eyes alight with new understanding. "Then sleep zura!"

Looking back to Rue again she said, "Will Ahiru and Fakir be okay zura?"

Rue blinked. "There's no reason why they won't be," she said. There was no sense worrying the little girl.

But as she looked outside at the angry lightning, and thought of what Mytho had told her about Fakir's Story, she could not deny that she was worried.


	12. Reverse

**Notes: My Rue muse has finally returned! And proves that she is easiest to write when interacting with Autor. And this chapter isn't as action-oriented as I'd planned, but there are some big surprises and future action is set up. This story is spiraling towards its climax.**

**Chapter Twelve**

The earthquake had caused more than its share of damage to the boundaries of the kingdom. As Fakir tore through the disrupted streets on a horse from the palace stable, he cast his eyes from left to right and straight ahead. He had to be perfectly alert. One breach of attention and his mount could slip and break a leg in one of the cracks that snaked up and down the cobblestone roads.

His destination loomed ominous and large ahead of them, cast in silhouette by the lightning that continued to flash in the sky. This enemy, this _Story_ that he had brought into being, was waiting there for him. In a few moments they would fight. And he had to be certain he was the victor. To lose would rain despair and death upon everyone. That was unacceptable.

It should not be that hard, should it, to defeat something that he had created? He could have won in the stable, had their confrontation continued then.

. . . And if he had not gotten sick.

His eyes narrowed. Would he have recovered from that if not for Autor? Was he really so powerless against his own Story? Or maybe it just took someone with the same abilities to fight it. Now that he had some of his memories back, he could fight himself, whereas before Autor had been the only one capable.

But if Autor could have brought it down himself, he would have. So apparently not even just anyone with the power was good enough to do this. Without a great deal of his memories, maybe Fakir would not be able to do anything, either.

And what if Ahiru was right and he would not be able to fight this duel with swords? No, he could not doubt himself now. Besides, he knew he had to use his Story-Spinning powers too. That was why he had written that Ahiru would give him strength. If he had granted her the support and invigoration necessary to win the previous battle, then couldn't she do the same for him if he wrote it?

Surely he was not expected to sit and write the entire time, struggling to overthrow an enemy he could not even see!

Yet . . . that was exactly what he had done during this previous fight, wasn't it.

It was too late to waver. His horse was galloping up the mountainside. And now he was close enough to see the translucent double of himself waiting at the summit. The being's sword was drawn. It was waiting.

"I will give you the battle you seek," Fakir vowed, his gaze fixed on the figure. "And you will regret it."

His own voice, corrupted and dark, wafted back to him on the night air. "I? You are the one who will die," his Story sneered. "And you hold so many lives in your hands. With your death will come the deaths of everyone you once held dear. Their hearts will die first. Then their bodies will follow!" The wretch raised his weapon above his head, where it caught the reflection from the next flash of lightning.

"I will not die!" Fakir retorted. He spurred his equine onward. But as they drew closer to the top the mare snorted, pulling on the reins as she began to slow and shy away. She did not want anything to do with the paranormal phenomenon at the peak.

"Everyone does, eventually," the Story said. "But it will be much sooner if I'm crossed." Now Fakir was close enough to see the merciless visage of his supernatural twin. It was twisted and cruel—his own features, but not his feelings. He was not overcome with hate.

Though if this went on much longer, Fakir would find it difficult not to hate his Story. It had already caused countless suffering and pain because of its selfishness.

"The songwriter is already dead, you know," the Story sneered, lowering the sword and stabbing it into the ground to lean on as he watched Fakir's attempted ascent.

Fakir froze, the reins slackening in his grasp. "What?" he cried. Without him to continue trying to guide her on the path he wished, the horse whinnied and shied again, turning desperately to the right. Fakir gritted his teeth, forced to return his attention to the task of trying to steer her to the proper path.

"He died from his injuries while you were coming up here," he was told. "If you do win by some fluke, which will never happen, I still wanted to make sure that you would not return to a happy ending. I already vowed he would die if he interfered a third time. And when I decide something, I make it happen."

Fakir glowered at the demon. "You're lying," he said. There was no point prolonging this any more. He was close enough to run the rest of the way on foot. He leaped down from the saddle, allowing the horse to turn tail and flee. This was no place for her anyway.

"I could be," his Story admitted. "But you can't know."

Fakir broke into a sprint, pulling his sword from its sheath as he ran. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded. "You say it's because you were forgotten. But is that really worth all of this suffering? If you have a problem, you should take it out on me alone! Don't get anyone else mixed up in it!"

The Story froze, its eyes flickering with new understanding. "You know, you have a point," it said. "I've been doing everything backwards. I made you forget everything as my revenge on you for allowing the townspeople to forget me. What I actually should have done was make everyone forget _you!_"

Fakir stumbled, nearly tripping over a rock in his path. "What?" he cried. No, it wouldn't. It couldn't!

And if it tried, he did not even have his writing materials to counter the attempt.

The Story sneered at him. "Who should I inflict first?" it mused. "The girl Ahiru? Your adopted father? Maybe that little girl with the drum. I'll have them remember their lives and everything about them, except you! That is exactly what you did to me when you used me to end Drosselmeyer's Story! It's only fitting you should discover what it's like."

Fakir was running again, his stomach twisting in his anger and panic. Even if that was true, he did not remember clearly enough to defend himself against the accusation. And he did not care about defending himself, though he was certain he must have had a good reason for what he had done.

"Don't you dare do anything to them!" he roared. "They've been through enough already because of you!" He swung his sword at the wretched creature as he came within range. It retaliated, bringing up its own blade to meet Fakir's.

"But you haven't," his Story sneered, pushing against Fakir's sword. "I only hurt them to hurt you. However, speaking of what they've been through, you've been responsible for a great deal of their pain. I may have locked your memories away, but _you_ chose to treat them cruelly."

Fakir wavered. That was true. So many times they had reached out to him, and though he had wanted to believe they were good people, in the end he had always rejected them. He had pierced their hearts again and again with his words and his deeds. He could not blame the Story. It was his fault.

"No! Don't listen to him, Fakir!"

He started in shock at the voice. As both he and his Story turned, they were met by the sight of Charon making his way up the mountainside. And quickly gaining on him was a red-haired blur clutching a satchel. It was Charon who had spoken, but Ahiru immediately joined in.

"It isn't your fault!" she wailed. "You didn't know. You were really confused and lost. You can't believe anything your Story tells you. It's just mean!"

Fakir stared at her, his thoughts tumbling hopelessly over each other. "After everything I did, you still don't blame me?" he said, incredulous.

"Of course not!" Ahiru cried.

"Idiot!" Fakir exclaimed then. As he got over the initial shock, his mind finally fully processed the scene. "What are you doing here? It isn't safe!"

"I brought your writing stuff!" Ahiru said. "I came to do what you wrote about, Fakir." She came to a stop, swallowing hard as she took in the sight of the Story. But then she looked back to Fakir, giving him a bittersweet smile. "I came to give you strength."

"We both have," Charon said. He clenched a fist. He did not want to see his adopted son fight this foe, especially not with a blade. Part of him wanted to run over and pull Fakir away, which he certainly would have done in days gone by. But Fakir was not a child anymore. And this was a battle only he could fight. So Charon would be here to support him, if nothing else.

The Story sneered. "Perfect," it said. "Just what I wanted—for those who are most dear to you to be here to witness this moment. I'll see that they die horribly before your eyes, unable to even remember who you are."

But it was then that something in Fakir's soul snapped. He would not, could not, take any more of this nightmare. And the Story would regret ever causing it and making this threat.

"_NO!"_ he yelled. With a vicious, almost inhuman strength, he turned his attention back to the duel and forced his Story back. Before the apparition could recover Fakir was advancing, swinging his sword hard and bringing it down on the Story's. The blade flew from its hands, spinning before impacting in the ground. Ahiru gasped.

Fakir pressed forward, his sword aiming for the Story's throat. The creature fell backwards and sat down hard, staring up at the deadly weapon. Fakir closed the gap between them, the point of the blade coming to rest against his Story's neck.

"This ends here," he snarled.

"Yes, it does," said the Story. Its eyes gleamed with sadism and danger. "But not for me. Remember, I control this world."

Something oozed over Fakir's fingers. He stared down in disbelief, his eyes widening. His sword was melting into liquid silver right before his eyes. "What?" he gasped. This was impossible!

"Fakir!" Ahiru cried. She lunged ahead in an attempt to run to him. But without warning she stumbled and tripped, falling on her face. She moaned, more in frustration than pain.

"Idiot!" Fakir snapped in worry. He ran to her, the melted sword still in his hands.

". . . What?" she choked out. "Why am I an idiot?"

Fakir frowned. That was not a typical response for her. He knew that just from being around her the past few days. As he watched her push herself to her knees, his heart dropped. Her eyes were blank.

She trembled, looking to him in frightened horror. "Who are you?" she whispered. "I know, somehow I know I'm supposed to know you, but I can't remember!"

Fakir's blood ran cold. And in that moment, a piece clicked in his mind that had long been absent. A piece he had struggled and searched diligently to find. He knew who she was to him.

"Ahiru!" he cried, his voice strangled in his own horror. _"AHIRU!"_

"You know me," she said in innocent amazement. "How?"

Fakir opened his mouth, but could not find the words to speak. Instead he whirled, his green eyes filled with hatred as he sought the Story. But the cruel being was already vanishing into a thickening fog, giving Fakir a malevolent sneer and wave.

"The two of you will die here together when this mountain is decimated," it said. "And neither of your memory banks are complete. It would make it all the more delicious if you remember only as you're dying."

"Wait!" Fakir yelled. But as he gave chase, the liquid silver dripped through his fingers again. He could not fight the Story with a melted sword. He threw it aside, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Give me that bag!" he said, turning back to Ahiru.

She looked down at the satchel over her shoulder. "Why?" she frowned.

"You were bringing it to me," Fakir said. "I need it!" He reached out for it.

Instead Ahiru jerked back. "I don't even know you!" she retorted, her fire sparking up.

Fakir flinched. Was this pain he was feeling how Ahiru and the others had felt when he had repeatedly rejected them? He deserved to feel it. He deserved to know. But it was too horrible to see Ahiru like this, especially knowing that she had come here for him.

"You said you felt like you did know me," he retorted.

"Yeah, but I couldn't," Ahiru frowned. She turned to run into the fog. "I'm going to find Charon! We need to get out of here. You'd better come too!"

Fakir stiffened. In the shock of having Ahiru forget him, he had not remembered Charon. Ahiru was right—Charon had disappeared. And the fog was not fog at all. It was smoke!

He coughed, clapping a hand over his nose and mouth as he chased after the girl he was just remembering. "We'll go together," he said, catching hold of her arm. "And when we find him, I still need you to give me the satchel."

Ahiru stiffened. As Fakir took her arm she looked over her shoulder at him. Her blue eyes flickered with confusion and wonder. "I really was bringing it to you?" she asked.

"Yeah," Fakir said. "I might be able to write us out of this mess. But I'll need your help."

Ahiru contemplated this, then nodded. "Okay," she said. "After we find Charon."

Gripping each other's hands for safety, they ran into the thickening smoke.

xxxx

Rue gave a quiet sigh, brushing her thick hair away from her eyes as she leaned back in the chair. Autor was the same as before, silent in his unconsciousness. Uzura had fallen asleep at his side a while ago. She looked peaceful, whereas it was hard to tell how Autor was feeling. His expression showed neither pain nor relaxation.

Mytho had gone to help the people who were victims of the earthquake. Rue would have gone with him in spite of her exhaustion, if it had not been that she had needed to deliver her report to the king and queen. But maybe it had worked out for the best; Ahiru had needed to go to Fakir and it was prudent that Autor have someone to watch over him besides a child puppet.

She would just have to hope and pray that a situation would not arise where Mytho would feel that he had to thrust his safety to the wind to protect someone else. It was a deep-seated fear of hers that one day she would find him seriously injured or worse because of his almost-obsessive determination to be self-sacrificing. Sometimes she wished she could teach him better that taking care of himself was a way to help as well.

But then again, she always worried, wasn't it just selfish of her to feel that way? She had been trying to change who she was, to fully accept and overcome the dark part of her heart, but it was not easy. She could not completely repress that side of her. And selfish or not, she did not want Mytho to keep taking such risks.

She frowned as the lightning flashed again. For just a moment, illuminated on the large mountain in the distance, dark gray clouds were visible. Or . . . no, it was not clouds at all. She stood, crossing to the window. Was the mountain on fire? It looked like smoke!

A weak groan brought her attention back to the bed. Autor was stirring; he had raised one hand and was fumbling with his hair, pushing it away from his eyes. As he moved his other hand he accidentally bumped Uzura. Starting in surprise, he opened his eyes as he blearily looked down at the puppet.

Rue crossed the floor to stand beside the bed. "Your glasses are on the nightstand to your right," she said. "How are you feeling?"

He froze at her voice. "Rue?" he rasped. He fumbled again as he searched for his glasses, but upon finding them he slipped them onto his face. He stared at her in amazement, color coming into his pale cheeks.

"It shouldn't be that much of a surprise to see me," Rue said. "I do live here, you know." But she softened as she looked at him. "You've given all of us a bad scare."

"I'm sorry." Autor leaned into the pillow. "Where are . . ." He glanced around the room, already exhausted from the effort of talking.

"Ahiru and Fakir aren't back yet." Rue's attention was divided. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the lightning flash again, illuminating the smoke-covered mountain. Were Ahiru and Fakir up there yet? Or were they still making their way up? Somehow she had the feeling they were there.

"What's wrong?" Autor looked to her in concern.

Rue started. Those were the first words she had heard Autor speak when they had properly met near Kinkan's wall. It was strange to think of how much had changed since then, with Kinkan as well as with both of them. It felt like a long-ago time now. Yet with a new Story as the enemy, on the other hand it did not feel long ago at all.

Part of her wanted to tell Autor that nothing was wrong. But from Autor's expression, he would not believe it.

"They're fighting Fakir's Story," she said.

His eyes widened. "What?"

"They'll be alright," Rue tried to assure him. "Ahiru took Fakir's writing materials to him."

"So he didn't have them," Autor frowned.

"No," Rue admitted with a _hmph._ "He thought he could fight it with the sword as well as the pen."

Autor averted his gaze. It was ironic, how he himself had always wanted the Story-Spinning power and Fakir had wanted to be a knight. Now Fakir seemed to be trying to go back to the role of a knight instead of fully relying on the power that was his.

And as for Autor, was his role in this madness over? Did what was left for him consist of lying here and waiting to recover? He would have to be acquiescent if that were so; Ahiru and Fakir were out there, trying to finish the battle that the Story had begun when it had waged war against them.

"Does Fakir remember?" he asked, suddenly realizing that he did not even know what the fruits of his labors had been, if any. But if Fakir had been using a pen at all, surely that indicated that something was different.

"He remembers some, thanks to you," Rue said. "You nearly gave up your life to give him back what you did."

"I see." Autor glanced down to the slumbering Uzura. "How long has it been?"

"I don't know; I wasn't here when it happened," Rue said as she watched him. "But I'm told the doctors don't know how you survived the shock to your body." A slight smile of amusement crossed her face as she added, "Uzura has been with you since Ahiru asked me to watch over you. According to Ahiru, Uzura came as soon as she heard what happened and hasn't left your side."

Autor shook his head. "I still don't understand the attraction," he muttered. He was all at once uncomfortable, awkward, and touched by the child's concern for his welfare.

Uzura stirred but did not awaken. "Autor zura," she mumbled, snuggling closer to him.

Rue hid a smile. "Autor, tell me honestly—do you know what Fakir could write to win against his Story?" she asked. She did not fully understand the Story-Spinning power, nor did she pretend to. But she was concerned over how this battle would be won. If there was no possible solution in sight, would they only win through trial and error and dumb luck?

Autor sobered. "I don't," he said. "I've been racking my mind trying to think of something ever since we started to suspect a Story could be our enemy." He sighed. "The problem with fighting a sentient Story is that they're powerful enough to be their own Story-Spinners."

"But Fakir wrote this Story in the first place," Rue said. "Shouldn't that be something in his favor?"

"That's what I've been hoping," Autor said. "I know I'm not the one who can defeat it. And that only leaves Fakir."

Suddenly he stiffened, his eyes opening wide. "Rue!" he breathed. "Something just occurred to me. The memory has been vague in my mind because of my poor mental state at the time it happened, but my Story told me that what gives Stories life is the part of the writer that he puts into them. And the part of Fakir that he put into this Story was good. He had only worthwhile motives." He pushed himself up on the mattress, excitement glimmering on his features. "What if he could appeal to that side of the Story? It has to still exist somewhere under the bitterness and hatred. In essence, it's the heart of the Story."

Rue looked back at him, stunned. "Do you think Fakir will think of this himself?" she wondered.

"I don't know," Autor said. "It's unlikely, since he didn't know what my Story told me." He turned to gaze out the window, his expression growing visibly worried at the sight of the vicious storm and the smoke. "He needs to be told."

"You certainly can't be the one to do it," Rue objected. "Autor, you've done your part." She reached to push him gently back into the bed. "Now what you need to do is rest."

Autor opened his mouth to protest. "But . . ."

"I'll see that the message is taken to Fakir," Rue said firmly. "Don't worry."

"Someone else might not tell it right," Autor retorted.

Rue crossed to the desk. "Then dictate it to me and I'll write it down," she said. "They'll deliver your exact words."

Autor did not answer. He was staring out the window again. "Ahiru and Fakir are on the mountain, aren't they," he said. "I can sense the evil emanating from it. The Story's influence is spreading all over the kingdom." He shook his head. "If you send someone out, they'll never get through the traps the Story has set. Unless the Story can be distracted long enough for someone to slip past, any attempt is almost certainly suicide."

"Then that's all the more reason you shouldn't go!" Rue snapped, whirling to face him. "The Story would stop you before you could ever get close. Someone should go who would never make it suspicious."

"What I'm saying is that anyone would make it suspicious," Autor said. "Someone who is more familiar with it might actually have a chance."

Rue gripped a pen, her hand trembling. As much as she hated it, there was a point in what Autor was saying, just as there was a point in her own words. Stubbornly she faced away from him, not wanting him to see her conflicted visage.

Why did he have to have such a logical argument? It made her feel so powerless to stop him, just as she felt about going up against Mytho's need to protect. With Autor, it was less about a desire to protect and more about feeling that getting involved himself was the most practical choice. But she had to wonder whether his prior need to feel important and useful was also a partial driving factor. In spite of his sorrow and anguish over having lost his mind, she doubted such earnest and almost desperate feelings would abate any time soon. Perhaps they were even stronger now because of his past bout of insanity.

Yet if that was still part of his motive, she had to wonder when it would ever be enough. Would he ever feel that he had achieved his goal? Or would he keep pushing himself endlessly towards exhaustion and collapse?

"You know," she said finally, trying to keep her voice level, "this is a time when one of those modern pocket phones would really be useful."

"Except the signal probably wouldn't work on a mountain," Autor frowned. "Particularly one controlled by a vengeful Story."

Now Rue looked back, a sad and ironic smile on her face. "We never can win, can we?" she said.

"Not without a lot of heart-wrenching battles, it seems," Autor said.

Rue sighed. "If you're going, then I'm going with you," she said. "And don't try to argue with me; it's pointless."

Autor looked at her in stunned surprise. Before he could reply, she hurried on, "But answer me one question first." Her garnet eyes pierced his brown ones. "Are you being driven by logic and reason or something else?"

Autor started. He had not expected this query either. "I . . ." He adjusted his glasses, looking uncomfortable again. "I don't know," he admitted in all honesty. "I've never been one who would throw everything away to protect someone."

"You say that, and yet you risked your life for Fakir more than once," Rue said.

"What else could I do?" Autor said. "I went to his aid because it was the logical and right choice. I would never stand by and watch someone being hurt or killed if I could do something to stop it."

Rue's smile was wan again. "You have more in common with Fakir and Mytho and Ahiru than you probably want to or even could believe," she said.

"I'm nothing like them," Autor sniffed.

"And you say that as though you think you're above them somehow," Rue observed.

Autor looked away. "I'm not," he said. "Quite the opposite, actually. I've cared about power and fame for my own glory. None of them ever have."

Rue sighed. Autor could be desperate to prove something to himself or others or it could just be his general personality that made him so insistent about going out. Maybe it was a mix of both.

"We'll take the swan carriage," she said, deciding to abandon the subject. "It's the fastest method of transportation in the kingdom." She left the desk, walking past Autor to the doorway. "And you should button your shirt. You'll catch a chill if you go out like you are now."

Now the poor boy gave a violent start. He stared down at himself, the color spreading deeply over his cheeks. All the time he had been here talking to Rue, and while she had watched over him before that, his shirt had been open like this? In horror he turned away, fumbling with the buttons.

"Why are you all red zura?"

He wanted to groan aloud, but somehow restrained himself. "Please mind your own business," he said, wondering how he had escaped realizing that the child was awake.

Uzura peered over his shoulder. "Are you better now zura?" she asked.

And that was something he honestly did not know. When he stood, he might be overwhelmed by vertigo. At any rate, he knew he felt very weak. It would be a miracle if he could walk anywhere without assistance.

"I'm awake," he said at last. "That should say something, shouldn't it?"

"I'm glad zura!" Uzura chirped. "I missed you zura."

"Why on earth would you miss me?" Autor could not refrain from inquiring. "We haven't interacted much." He finished closing his shirt at last and reached for the brooch that had been placed on the nightstand. Gathering his scarf, he tried to affix the clasp in place.

"I don't know zura," Uzura said. "It's just nicer when you're around zura!" She stepped back as he moved to push himself off the bed. "Are you and Rue going somewhere zura?"

"We have to deliver a message to Fakir," Autor told her.

"I want to come zura!" Uzura proclaimed.

Autor swayed, but whether from the attempt to stand or from this announcement, he was not sure. "That isn't possible!" he exclaimed, gripping the edge of the nightstand.

Rue regarded the scene in amusement from the doorway. "I said the same thing to you," she said.

"Yes, but that's different," Autor said. "This is a child."

"I don't want Uzura in trouble any more than I want you in trouble," Rue said. Looking to the puppet she said, "Uzura, you can come with us, but only if you do exactly as we say. You can't wander off."

"Okay zura!" Uzura said cheerily.

Autor pushed up his glasses, looking at Rue in disbelief. He wanted to trust her judgment, but this honestly shocked him.

"There's no telling what she might get into if we leave her here," Rue said to him. "She—and the palace—will be safer if she's with us."

Autor could not deny the logic of that rationale.


	13. One by One

**Notes: Thanks to Northeastwind, who inadvertently inspired Rue and Autor's conversation! Wow, it's been a while since I've done a story this long. It's fun.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Fakir coughed behind his free hand, squinting through the thick smoke as his eyes watered. There was no sign of Charon, or his Story, or anyone else. He and Ahiru had been fumbling through this mess for what seemed ages. And the longer they searched, the deeper into the unhealthy clouds they plunged.

"He's not here!" Ahiru cried in despair at his side. "What are we going to do? We can't leave him here!"

"We have to keep looking," Fakir said.

He was trying not to let his heart ache, to push aside the anguish that had been swiftly filling his soul since realizing Ahiru did not know him, but it was impossible to hide from it altogether. She had fought so hard to save him, to get him to remember her and everyone and everything else, and now she was the one with blank eyes, looking at him as though he were a stranger.

And he remembered. He _remembered._ She was Ahiru, the annoying girl who had always ended up coming around Mytho, who had tried to restore his heart as Princess Tutu even when Fakir had bitterly opposed her. The brave girl who had never given up, who had finally worked her way into Fakir's heart and changed him because of her hope and her determination.

The girl he loved.

He glanced down at the satchel she was carrying, barely able to even see its outline. Would it be possible to write them out of this mess? The Story had written them into it. If one of them had a flashlight, maybe he could try writing that it started to rain and the smoke dispersed or something like that.

He frowned. Was it really that simple? His memories were still not complete, but somehow it seemed that Story-Spinning was not just putting on paper what he wanted to say. The trouble he had gone through attempting to write back at the palace testified to that.

"What are we waiting for?" Ahiru exclaimed. "Let's go!"

"Wait a minute," Fakir shot back. He grabbed at the flap of the bag, pulling it up as he reached for the materials inside. "I'm going to try something. Do you have a flashlight?"

She blinked. "Yeah," she said. "I had to use one to come up. I thought a lantern might be too dangerous with the earthquakes and stuff." She pulled a small flashlight out of her pocket and clicked it on.

Fakir nodded in approval. "Hold it so it shines on this," he said, raising and balancing the paper holder in his left arm and dipping the quill in the ink.

"What are you going to do?" Ahiru said in disbelief.

"Maybe nothing," Fakir growled. He pressed the pen to the leaf, willing words to come. To his relief and amazement, they did.

_It was then that the storm gathering overhead burst free, sending rain upon the mountaintop and dispelling the growing smoke. This would enable the two youths to find their adopted father and search for the treacherous Story that had written them into this predicament._

Yes, that was right, Fakir remembered, even as he looked at the words in surprise. Charon had taken Ahiru in as he had taken Mytho in before that. With Drosselmeyer's Story ended, Ahiru had needed someone to take legal guardianship of her after becoming a girl again. Charon, knowing the truth about her origins, had been the most logical choice.

Ahiru coughed, squinting at the words on the page. "Is it working?" she asked.

Fakir looked up, studying the scene around them. Overhead the thunder rumbled.

It was only as the rain began to pour down moments later that something else occurred to him. He swore, shoving the papers back into the satchel before they could get wet.

"This had better work," he said. "Unless there's a place to go to get out of the rain, I'm not going to be able to write anymore."

"Well, at least we can breathe now!" Ahiru said. She heaved a sigh of relief as the cleansing water swept over the mountain, washing the smoke into nothingness.

Fakir frowned. "Something doesn't seem right," he muttered. "That was too easy."

Ahiru froze, looking over her shoulder at him. "So we didn't win?" she gasped.

"I don't know," Fakir said. "Come on, let's find Charon." He grabbed her wrist and started off in determination. He had been able to write the part about Charon with ease, so did that mean they would find him?

His stomach knotted. If nothing was going to go as it should, what if they found Charon in a bad state? The Story had threatened that . . .

He did not finish that thought. Instead he broke into a run, pulling Ahiru with him.

"Hey!" she cried, nearly stumbling over a rock. "Don't go so fast! We might fall down the mountain!"

"You might, but you're not going to because I won't let you," Fakir retorted. "Charon might be hurt." The longer they ran, the more probable the thought became. Panic rose in his heart as he pressed forward in desperation, calling for the blacksmith.

Ahiru suddenly gave a cry of horror. "Is that blood?" she burst out, pointing to a downhill trail of diluted crimson mixed with water.

Fakir flinched. He turned, staring at the sight. It was as he feared.

"Charon!" he screamed. He kept hold of Ahiru's wrist as he ran forward, frantic both to find the man and to not let anything more happen to Ahiru. The girl struggled to keep pace with him; even though she was a fast runner, this was difficult terrain and it was hard to move fast with her wrist being held on to.

But all such thoughts vanished as they found a limp hand lying in the grass. Fakir's heart dropped as he released Ahiru and fell to his knees. "Charon!" he yelled again. He was trembling in sickened horror and denial.

"Charon!" Ahiru echoed. Tears pricked her eyes. "Charon, wake up!"

The man was sprawled on his back, his face twisted in pain. His other hand was clutching his side as blood slipped through his fingers. At the sound of the teens' voices he grunted, forcing his eyes open.

"Ahiru?" he rasped. He looked to Fakir. "Who . . . ?"

Fakir's blood ran cold. "Charon. . . ."

He reached to pry the large hand away from the wound. "You don't know me at all?" he asked, though he was certain it was in vain.

"No," Charon frowned, wincing in pain as Fakir forced his hand aside.

Fakir's gaze traveled over the length of the injury. It had clearly been inflicted by the Story's sword, but he could not tell how deep it was. He grabbed at his shirt, tearing off the bottom and pressing it against the cruel slice.

Charon watched him through bleary eyes. There was something about the boy that seemed familiar, in a far distant part of his mind, but he could not place it. And at the moment, his thoughts were just not clear enough to attempt sorting it out.

Fakir swore again. "Imagine, me thinking I was a knight," he spat under his breath. "I can't protect anyone. I'm nothing but a joke." His drenched hair fell over his eyes. In frustration he tried to blow it aside. He could not let go of the wound to push it away; he had to apply constant pressure.

Slowly and gently Ahiru reached out, brushing Fakir's hair to the side. He looked to her in surprise and gratitude. She blushed, looking awkward but still determined.

"I still don't remember you, but somehow I'm sure you're a good person," she said. "I feel like I know that. And I know you'll do everything you can to help Charon."

Fakir swallowed the lump of heartache and despair and guilt in his throat, but it only returned. "Yeah," he choked out. "I will."

But how much would that be?

xxxx

Autor did indeed need help walking, much to his chagrin. But it was not bad at all when it was Rue who guided him. She placed his arm around her shoulders and her arm around his waist and patiently walked alongside him as they exited the palace and made their way to the swan carriage that she had ordered to have prepared at the doorway.

Autor was red the entire time. And while he greatly enjoyed being so close to Rue, at the same time he felt a melancholy air. She saw him as nothing more than a friend. Though he had come to see the value of true friends, it was painful when he loved her in a different way. But he stayed silent, focusing his energy on half-walking, half-limping to the carriage.

"I can make it from here," he said when they arrived.

Rue loosened her hold on him, allowing him to climb unsteadily into the cab on his own. She followed him in before Uzura scrambled in after them and sat down on the side, staring in fascination as the swans began to lift them into the sky.

"We should look for Mytho as we go," Rue said. "If he's available, he'll want to go to Fakir too."

". . . That's true," Autor said, pushing up his wandering glasses.

Rue gave him a sideways glance. "He has his horse," she said. "He'd travel on that. Besides, there's no room in the carriage for anyone else."

Autor flushed again. "O-of course," he stammered. He glanced out the other side of the carriage. His amazement over their ascent was only a partial façade; it was truly exhilarating.

Rue let out a quiet sigh. The topic of Autor's unrequited feelings for her was not something either of them really wanted to get into now. Instead she would go back to something else.

". . . It's hard having once been the antagonist, isn't it."

Autor looked to her in surprise. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I know what the palace court thinks of you," she said. "And even Mytho fell prey to their concerns for a while." Autor still did not know that Mytho deeply regretted that now. She would tell him, but she was sure Mytho wanted to be the one to do so.

Autor averted his gaze. "It's nothing that wouldn't be expected," he said. "Or deserved." He glanced to her again. "But I was told that you spoke in my favor."

Rue nodded. "I was sure you weren't responsible this time," she said. "But tell me, Autor—have you been able to get back to your old life?"

"Yes," Autor said. "It hasn't been easy, but I've been doing my best." He looked down, absently running his right hand over the scar on his left. "I've had to re-earn my trust from the others."

"And from yourself?"

Autor stiffened. "That too," he said. "Which is actually much more difficult."

Rue gave a wan smile. "It is," she agreed. "There's always that fear of wondering if someday you might turn back, if the slightest hint of a darker thought could lead to a place you don't want to go."

Now his eyes registered visible shock. "Rue, you . . . ?" he said.

She nodded. "I still don't fully trust myself," she said. "I'm not sure I ever really will."

He turned to face her more completely. "Of course you will!" he exclaimed earnestly. "Surely in time you'll see that you've changed."

"Perhaps," she agreed, "if I truly have."

"But you have!" Autor protested. "I remember when you came to me at the theatre I invented and told me about your past. You were trying to save me from the darkness. You wouldn't have been so determined if a change hadn't already taken place in your heart."

"I knew what the darkness would do to you," she said, "and what it would do after you came back to yourself. I knew how it would continue to torture you, making you feel not only regret and horror and guilt, but fear."

Autor swallowed hard. "I'm not going to fear the darkness any more," he said. "That was what I vowed when I made the decision to try to save Fakir with my music."

Now it was Rue who looked surprised. "Really, Autor?" she said.

He nodded. "If I had kept being afraid of it, I couldn't have done what I did," he said. He looked at her firmly. "Rue, you don't have to fear it, either. Of course we'll continue to have darkness in our hearts. Everyone does. But that doesn't mean we'll give in to it. It doesn't mean we should live in fear that we will."

Rue gazed at him for a long moment before she spoke again. "Autor . . . you've gotten to a place I'm still trying to find," she said at last. "I don't know when or how I'll get there. But thank you." A smirk played on her lips now. "I was actually going about this thinking maybe I could help you. Instead, it's you who's helped."

Autor's cheeks colored. "I don't want you to suffer anymore," he said. "You deserve to be happy, Rue."

Rue blushed a bit now. "I am," she said quietly.

"Truly happy, without fear," Autor said.

Uzura chose that moment to interrupt the conversation. "Ohh! It's raining on the mountain zura!" she announced. "The smoke's going zura!"

Autor blinked in surprise. "It is?" he said, leaning forward to look.

Rue reached behind them, pulling the canopy out and over the top of the cab to keep the rain from coming in on them. "That's strange," she said. "Is the Story doing that? Or is it Fakir?"

"Who's Fakir zura?"

Both Rue and Autor started, facing the child in disbelief. Her eyes were innocent, but blank.

"Uzura, you don't know Fakir?" Rue asked carefully.

She shook her head. "Should I know zura?"

Autor continued to stare. "Do you know us?" he demanded.

"Yes zura!" Uzura said. "You're Autor and you're Rue zura!"

"Then it's only Fakir you've forgotten." Autor slumped back, stunned by this development. "This has to be the Story's doing. But does that mean we'll all forget?"

Rue's eyes widened. What about the message they needed to take to him? Would their journey be for naught? If they forgot Fakir, they would not even know that they needed to deliver the message.

Autor looked to her, worry in his eyes. "Rue, no matter what, one of us has to remember," he said.

She gave a nod. "Both of us, if we can manage it," she said.

Silent prayers ran through their minds and hearts as the carriage drew closer to the mountain.

xxxx

Mytho frowned as he looked up from where he was assisting the rescue effort in the village. The object in the sky had captured his attention just as he had been lifting a child through the window of her family's ruined house.

"That's the royal carriage," he breathed.

"Whatever is it doing out?" frowned one of the guards who had come with him.

Mytho shook his head. "I don't know, but I'd better find out. It's going towards that mountain." He passed the sniffling child to the surprised guard. "Johan, can you help this girl find her parents? They're back at the temporary shelter and they're very worried."

Johan awkwardly took the girl into his arms. "Of course, my Prince," he said.

Mytho smiled. "I shouldn't be long," he said. Climbing onto his horse, he directed it to set off at a brisk trot. He stared into the sky, hoping to keep the carriage in sight.

"Are you up there, Rue?" he wondered aloud. "Why?"

It was not likely to be Fakir; he would prefer traveling by horse. It surely must be Rue, but what was so important about the mountain? The carriage was heading straight for it as though the occupant knew exactly what destination was desired.

He frowned. He had not even been able to talk with Fakir since Autor had gotten hurt. First he had needed to speak with his parents and quell the people's fears. Then Rue had come and he had informed her of the day's long series of events. And just when he had hoped he could go to Fakir a messenger had burst in with news that some of the villagers were trapped because of the earthquake. Mytho had debated with a heavy heart, but had determined that speaking to Fakir would still have to wait.

He had been comforted knowing Ahiru was with Fakir, but he had felt guilty anyway. Why did so much have to happen at once? One problem was barely being dealt with before another appeared. The Story was not wasting any time.

The carriage was flying over the mountain now. And it looked like the smoke that had clogged the nearby sky before had dissipated. That was strange. All of it was strange.

He spurred the horse to go faster. Rue must be up there and he needed to know why.

But . . . what was this feeling that he had suddenly forgot something important?

Or some_one._ Hadn't he just been thinking that someone he cared about dearly might have taken a steed?

He frowned. Who would do that?

"Am I being manipulated again?" he said aloud, worry saturating his tone.

The horse's hooves pounding on the ground could give him no answers.

xxxx

Fakir was still tending to Charon's wound when the sound of a galloping horse filled the air. Both he and Ahiru turned to look in surprise.

"Mytho!" Ahiru exclaimed, as the Prince rode into view. Relief spread over her features. "Mytho, we need help! Charon's been hurt!"

Mytho stared at the scene, alarm passing through his eyes. "How badly?" he asked, looking from Ahiru to Fakir. He stiffened in shock. This person looked strikingly like Lohengrin, his knight who had been killed. But that was impossible.

"I'm not sure," Ahiru said.

Fakir opened his mouth to respond, but Mytho's expression gave him pause. "What is it?" he asked.

But Mytho shook his head. "Nevermind; it's unimportant right now." He bent down, seeing the blood-soaked cloth Fakir was pressing against the wound. "Has the bleeding stopped?"

"It's slowed," Fakir said. "But he needs medical help right now. He passed out again a few minutes ago."

Mytho nodded and straightened. "I'll go back to the palace and let the medics know," he said. "I won't return without help." He looked up at the sky. "Rue must be coming this way. Please tell her what I'm doing."

Ahiru was again surprised. "Rue is?" she said. "But she's supposed to be with Autor!"

"Someone's coming in the swan carriage," Fakir noted as he looked into the sky. He was only just seeing it now; he had been far too involved with Charon's sword wound to pay much heed to anything else.

"Maybe Autor is with Rue," Mytho suggested. "I'll be back soon." He climbed back onto his horse and rode off, heading back down the mountain.

Ahiru gazed after him. "Something seemed strange," she said. "Mytho gave you a really funny look. I wonder why?"

Fakir grunted and looked down to Charon's injury. Did Mytho not remember him either? It was hard to tell from Mytho's stunned expression alone, but he had seemed distant somehow. On the other hand, maybe he was just worried about Charon. There had not really been any chance for a real conversation.

Still, he could not ignore the possibility that Mytho simply did not know him anymore. And it stabbed him hard. Mytho had always known who he was, even while heartless. And as Mytho had begun to regain his feelings, he had cared about Fakir all the more deeply as a brother and friend.

Fakir clenched his teeth. Everyone around him was forgetting, while he was remembering more and more. The Story must be laughing now, wherever it was.

"Fakir!"

He started at the voice. "Autor?" he breathed. He jerked up, seeing the carriage come to a smooth landing on the mountainside. Uzura got out, followed by a concerned Rue. Autor remained inside, but he leaned over the edge of the cab.

Ahiru leaped to her feet. "Autor!" she burst out, both in shock and joy. "You're awake! But what are you doing here? And Rue and Uzura, too?" She ran over to their friends in amazement.

"We came to tell Fakir a theory I have," Autor said, looking to Ahiru and then back to Fakir. "But there's a problem."

Uzura tapped out a beat of introduction on her drum. "Are you Fakir zura?" she chirped, looking to Fakir in fascination. But then she caught sight of Charon and ran the rest of the way over to him, confusion and alarm in her eyes. "What happened zura?"

Rue frowned deeply, studying the scene. "Someone should get the palace medics," she said.

"Mytho was just here," Fakir said shortly. "He's doing that." He watched Uzura hurry over and kneel down, her blue eyes filling with tears to see Charon lying so still.

"Will he be okay zura?" the puppet exclaimed.

"Yeah," Fakir said, praying it was true.

She did not remember Fakir, either. And from Rue's expression, neither did she. Only Autor was still clinging to some knowledge of Fakir's identity, but he would surely not be immune indefinitely.

"Autor, what's your theory?" Fakir asked. There would be time for a proper reunion later. Right now, time was of the essence.

Autor pushed up his glasses. "These sentient Stories are brought to life because of the parts of the writer's soul that he puts into them," he said. "The Story of yours that's wreaking havoc now was given life from your desire to protect people and give them freedom from Drosselmeyer's Story. No matter how bitter and cruel it's become, that part of you is its lifeforce. If you can somehow reach that lifeforce, maybe you can turn the Story back to its original objective."

Fakir's eyes widened. "How do you know this?" he demanded.

"Nevermind that!" Autor retorted. "Once Charon is helped, just get to work."

Confusion passed over his features in the next moment. He stared at Fakir blankly, then looked uncomfortable. "What was I just saying?" he wondered. "And who are you?"

Fakir felt ill. "Nevermind," he said, throwing Autor's words back at him. "It doesn't matter now."

He looked back to Charon. As soon as the medics came, he would have to get to work, as Autor had said. He would go to the carriage, where the canvas would protect the writing materials from the rain, and try to get through to the heart of his Story. He had to put an end to this! He had to restore not only his memories, but everyone else's. And it all had to be done before morning.

Ahiru looked back and forth between them, biting her lip. At last she stepped closer to Fakir. Her heart was twisting for a reason she did not understand and could not explain.

"Um," she began, but then was not sure how to continue. She shifted her weight. "I'm really sorry none of us remember you." She swallowed hard. "I just have this feeling we're all supposed to, and that deep down I want to remember you more than anything else, but I just can't!" She squeezed her eyes shut as several despairing tears slipped free.

Fakir stared at her. How was it that she was able to feel that she was supposed to know him? He had not had any such feelings about her or any of the others, unless he had simply refused to acknowledge them the way he had staunchly refused to even consider that he was not Lohengrin. In any case, that stabbed him even deeper.

"It's alright," he said finally, keeping his voice low. "You'll remember. All of us will." Determination filled his tone. "I promise."

Ahiru looked at him in surprise, but then nodded. "It's funny," she said, "but I believe you."

Fakir averted his gaze. _It's funny, alright,_ he said bitterly. _And I can't let her or anyone else down again._

It was not long before Mytho arrived with the medics and another carriage in tow. In hindsight, Fakir supposed, he should have found it strange that the Story had allowed it to happen. He should have found it strange that Autor had kept his knowledge of Fakir long enough to deliver his message—though perhaps that had been something the Story had not intended.

But as Fakir stood and backed away to let the medics take care of Charon, holding his hands into the rain to cleanse them of blood, the Story made its next move.

The thunder boomed overhead as a warning or as a threat. Even as Fakir suddenly realized something was wrong, and even as he looked to the sky in surprise, it was too late. Something on fire pierced his back and charged throughout it before then swiftly spreading to his entire body.

Ahiru's horrified scream filled Fakir's ears as he sank to the grass, his eyes closing against his will.


	14. Peak

**Notes: Whew. Finally this chapter is done! I hope it's alright; I know a lot of times climatic episodes fall short of what they should. And I struggled a lot with this one.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Ahiru was running to Fakir's side even as he collapsed. Somewhere in her mind she knew she was crying out for him, but she was too caught up in her horror to fully recognize it. In desperation she reached for his limp body.

At the same moment an image flashed before her eyes, an image of herself as Princess Tutu, cradling the weakened Fakir in her arms. _Fakir, her friend, the boy she had come to love. . . . _A gasp of surprise left her lips. But as soon as they were there, the image and the memory vanished as though they had never existed and she was back in the present.

As she reached for Fakir, instead she was pulled back without warning.

"Don't touch him!" one of the medics exclaimed.

"What are you talking about?" she wailed. "I have to see if he's okay!" She struggled against the strong arms, but in vain.

"He was blasted by lightning," the man replied. "Of course he's not okay."

The sound of something crackling stunned Ahiru into silence. As she stared in shock at Fakir's form, sparks of electricity leaped from his body.

Mytho stared in stunned alarm. Now he was torn. Part of him wanted to go to the strange boy who resembled Lohengrin. The other part felt a need to see that Charon was further tended to. With this new injury, the boy would need to be taken to the palace for help as well. But was there enough room for both of them in the carriage?

Uzura, who was still at Charon's side, was now gawking at Fakir's lifeless form. "What happened zura?" she exclaimed. "Why do people keep getting hurt zura?"

"It's the Story's fault," Rue frowned. She flinched as the electricity burst up from Fakir's body. Going into action, and calling on her position as the Princess, she began to direct the medics in handling both of the medical emergencies.

From the carriage, Autor gasped in horror. Was Fakir even alive? He should not have an electrical charge. Autor stumbled out of the cab before the sparks had even fully died away, a prayer for Fakir's life on his lips.

Ahiru sank to her knees, her legs no longer able to support her. "Fakir!" she cried out. _"Fakir!"_

Again she reached out, this time grabbing his shoulder. When there was no further assault of electricity, she took hold of his other shoulder as well. "Wake up!" she pleaded. "Fakir, wake up!"

Autor crumpled to his knees next to them, only half on purpose. He was still not well enough to walk without assistance. He extended his hand, searching for a pulse.

The medic who had pulled Ahiru away stood staring, dumbfounded. He barely even heard Rue's directions to him and the others. Nothing about this night was normal. This was the third injury, and quite possibly the most bizarre. As he, too, knelt down, he lifted Fakir's shirt.

"His shirt's not even torn on his back," he exclaimed. "There's no mark left from the lightning on his skin."

"He's alive," Autor said, looking up from his own examination. "That lightning strike was deliberate. And it was not intended to kill."

Ahiru's eyes widened. "Then what was it for?" she cried.

"To cruelly incapacitate," Autor frowned. "I still can't place who he is, but I can sense the Story's power in the air. It's tormenting all of us, but especially him."

Tears pricked Ahiru's eyes. "Fakir. . . ." She clutched his hand, frantic for some movement. Her heart was aching even though the flash of knowledge concerning his identity—and the memory of regaining that knowledge—was gone. "You have to be okay. Please wake up!"

But there was no response.

xxxx

Fakir could hear her pleas echoing through his mind, though he was powerless to answer. His heart twisted at her plaintive cries. _Ahiru. . . ._ She was worried sick. He had to wake up.

He grunted, forcing his eyes open. He was lying on his stomach, just the way he remembered falling, but all was completely black. Why? Had he gone blind? Had the Story taken away his sight to keep him from Story-Spinning?

He pushed himself to his knees. "What is this?" he growled under his breath. Louder he called, "Ahiru? Where are you?"

"She can't hear you. No one can, except me."

He stiffened at the wretched voice. "You," he snarled. Now he could see just well enough to know that his Story was standing in front of him. The green aura glowed eerily in the otherwise dark space.

"Where are we?" he demanded, getting to his feet. "What happened to Ahiru and the others?"

"They're around," the Story said. "We're in your mind." It laughed. "They're not, though I'm sure the girl wishes she were."

Its visage twisted into a sneer. "Was it fun, being struck by lightning? I chose that for two reasons, you know. I thought it would be so poetically ironic, since you're the one who made it rain. And your friend was electrocuted when he was trying to help teach you how to write."

Fakir glared. "How are you able to get in my head?" he retorted, opting not to give the Story the satisfaction of a reply to that comment. But the fact that the Story had had a purpose for choosing the method of torment did not surprise him.

"That should be obvious," said the Story. "You created me, didn't you? I can communicate with you in whatever way I like."

"I didn't create you to act like this!" Fakir retorted. Then Autor's words rushed back to him. His eyes widened in his remembrance.

"I created you to do good!" he said. "You were supposed to stop the cruelty, not add to it!"

"You created me to follow your will and then be abandoned and forgotten," the Story spat. "And I wasn't willing to let that happen. Stories are meant to be remembered and retold through the ages, not left to rot!

"After the songwriter's Story came to life, I decided it was the perfect time to make my move. I'd already been manipulating things slowly before that, making people remember little things here and there. But I was tired of such slow progress."

"So you made everything happen fast," Fakir growled.

"It worked," the Story said. "I made you forget everything, and the townspeople remember everything, in a matter of moments." It sneered. "And what your friend told you won't help. I can't be swayed. I'm just like Autor's Story; I'm more powerful than my creator. Except you can't even stop me with your death, as Autor stopped his."

Fakir gritted his teeth. "I won't lose hope," he retorted. "And I won't die."

"If you can wake up, you might live—at least until I kill all of your friends and you with them," the Story grinned.

"I'll wake up," Fakir vowed. "And that will be your undoing!"

The Story stepped back, laughing as it vanished. The malevolent cackles echoed long after it had physically departed.

Fakir stood in the recesses of his mind, his fists clenched. He was furious, but he could not focus on that. He had to figure out how to wake up. How was he going to do that? Would it work to concentrate on picturing himself regaining consciousness? It was the only thing he could think of, so he would have to try.

He closed his eyes, pushing aside all other thoughts. He was lying on the ground, the prickly grass poking him over his face and arms. Ahiru was pleading for him to wake up. The rain had stopped, but the thunder was still rumbling in the distance.

His eyes weakly opened. Ahiru and Autor were both leaning over him, worry in their eyes. Mytho was standing behind them in concern. Seeing Fakir awake, a smile of relief and joy spread over Ahiru's features.

"Thank goodness," she proclaimed.

Fakir grunted. ". . . How long . . . was I out?" he rasped.

"Exactly five minutes," Autor said.

"How are you feeling?" Mytho asked. "Charon has been placed in the carriage, but the storm has gotten too terrible for the medics to even get him off the mountain." He shook his head, the full impact of the grim situation flashing in his eyes. "None of us know what we're going to do. And surely after a blast such as you received, you need immediate medical help too. . . ."

"I could be worse," Fakir grunted. "And we'll all be dead if I don't do something about this in the next few minutes."

He leaned into the grass, resting for a moment before attempting to push himself into a sitting position. From here he could easily gaze into the sky. Mytho was right—the worst of the storm was now directly around the mountain on all sides. This left them in the eye of the hurricane, so to speak, not directly in danger but helpless as the kingdom was being devastated all around them.

Furious, he pressed his palms into the ground and started to force himself up. His body balked, and he fell back into the blades with a frustrated grunt.

"No," he growled. "I have to write!"

"It'll have to wait!" Ahiru exclaimed. She reached out to hold him down. "You need to rest!"

"If I don't write, the Story will destroy all of us," Fakir retorted. He grasped her wrists, pushing her away from him. Then he tried for the second time to rise.

Autor had stiffened. "He's right," he said to Ahiru. "I've been feeling something very wrong in the air, something connected to this dark Story. The longer we stay, the more it just increases. And Fakir . . ." He nodded to the other boy, who was desperately forcing back his trembling as he sat up. ". . . He has the Story-Spinning power."

Fakir made a grab for the satchel, pulling it open with shaking hands. Ahiru could only watch, torn now as he drew out his writing materials.

"This Story-Spinning stuff is dangerous!" she protested. "Look what it's caused already!"

Fakir dipped the quill in the ink. "There's no other way," he said. "I have to fight the Story by writing another one."

"But what if it goes mean too?" Ahiru wailed.

Fakir did not answer, clutching the pen tightly as blood rose in his throat. The Story did not want him to write any more than it had wanted Autor to write. It was going to do everything in its power to stop him. He gasped, letting out a breath as he swallowed the coppery liquid.

"It won't," he said. Yet it was true that previously he had only been able to write with Ahiru as the central figure, and it had solely been Ahiru to whom his writing had given strength. Would the words he needed now come to him, unlike in the palace?

He forced his hand onto the page. _"And the knight who had cast away his sword called it to him again, but this time as a changed weapon. He would fight with a sword made of a pen and a shield crafted of words. With those whom he cared for to give him strength, he knew he could win."_

Ahiru leaned over to look at the handwriting. "Fakir," she whispered. Though she still could not remember who he was, being included among those he cared about both swelled and ached her heart. She would do everything she could to help him, and from Autor's expression, he felt the same.

"_The kingdom was beginning to crumble around them. From their vantage point at the mountain's peak, they could see the next earthquake starting below. The mountain was just close enough to feel the tremors, but far enough away to not be seriously affected. Or maybe that was the Story's doing just as much as the quake itself was._

"_The Story refused to listen to the knight in spoken words, but it would not have much choice if its creator could appeal to its original heart in writing. It was meant to be good, to help the people. And, the knight vowed, it would again."_

Perspiration began to slide down Fakir's face and over his eyes, making both the writing and the concentration difficult. Autor took out a handkerchief, dabbing it over Fakir's skin. Could this be done? Did Fakir have the right level of power for such a feat?

Fakir gritted his teeth, struggling to fight back another growing lump in his throat. _"The knight thought of his intentions when he had first written that Story. He thought of his desire to protect his loved ones and lead them to a happy ending outside of Drosselmeyer's Story. He thought of the trials and the heartache they had all gone through in order to achieve it. He thought of how they had fought unceasingly to have their lives back. That was what he wanted now—for all of their lives and their memories to be restored to them in full. He wanted the seals to be broken and . . ."_

He stopped in mid-sentence, throwing the materials to the ground. He whirled, forced to gag into the grass. Crimson splattered across the green blades.

Ahiru gasped in horror. "Fakir!" she cried. But as she moved to try to help him, the tremors grew stronger. The wind began to increase in power. Ahiru had no choice but to shield herself as dirt and dust and other debris flew through the air.

Autor dove at the writing materials, holding them on the ground in a frantic attempt to keep the papers from being blown away. "Fight it, Fakir!" he yelled.

Fakir coughed again. He could still taste the blood in his mouth. And with the sudden angry weather, it was almost inconceivable that he could get anything more done. But he had to.

Grabbing both the bag and the paper holder Autor was guarding, he shoved the wooden frame into the satchel. "If there's any light at all, shine it over here," he directed.

Autor's eyes widened. "You're going to try writing from inside that?" he said in disbelief.

The wind howled in fury, snapping Fakir's hair-tie. The greenish-black mane spilled loose, blowing in every direction.

"There's not much choice now!" Fakir retorted. He held up the flap, allowing the quill to be at least halfway straight even though the upper part of it still pressed against the side of the bag. Then, barely able to see what he was writing, he continued.

"_And for all of them to remember who they truly were. To be missing parts of their memories, they were missing parts of themselves._

"_The knight would not be afraid. He poured his will into his Stories, both new and old. They would remember."_

Ahiru's eyes suddenly went wide. "Fakir!" she cried. _"Fakir!"_ Understanding and knowledge were flooding into her mind. She knew him. She _knew_ him. And now she could scarcely believe she had forgotten. Tears pricked her eyes. "I didn't even remember who you are," she whispered. "How could I forget you?"

Fakir looked at her for only a moment, the relief showing in his eyes. "Idiot," he said. "I forgot you too. I forgot everyone."

Mytho shook his head, guilt sweeping over him anyway. "But still," he said quietly, "to forget you, Fakir, after everything you did for me. . . ." He looked sickened. "This is the second time that I've fallen prey to that Story's will."

"It's merciless," Fakir said. "You shouldn't blame yourself."

"You shouldn't blame yourself, either," Ahiru retorted. "But you are, aren't you, Fakir?"

Fakir grunted. He was, of course. It was hypocritical, he knew. Yet on the other hand, it seemed different to him since he was the actual writer. Why could he not control his own Story? How had something like this happened?

Autor's eyes also changed, gaining recognition. "At least I had enough force of will to deliver my message before my memories were blocked," he said. He pushed up his glasses, holding them in place with one hand while shining a flashlight towards the satchel. "Let's finish this."

Fakir gave a firm nod. No matter what his feelings were towards himself, he would push them back. The important thing now was winning this fight. And it had to be soon—the kingdom was continuing to break apart even as they spoke. He could only pray that all would be restored when this ended.

As he returned his attention to the paper and pen the wind increased even more, howling violently through the sky and the trees. The storm seemed likely to make a comeback to the mountain.

"_The corrupted Story's power was weakened. Now that the others remembered, the knight turned his full attention to bringing it back to the light._

"_The wind began to . . ."_ He gasped, the blood rising again in his throat. Forcing it down, he began to choke on its coppery properties. _"To slow. . . ."_ He turned away just as the blood ascended uncontrollably to his lips.

"Keep going," Autor ordered harshly. "No matter what it throws at you, don't stop!"

"I won't!" Fakir retorted. Wiping the blood with the back of his hand, he resumed the work.

"_The tremors lessened, beginning to free the kingdom from their devastating threats."_

Ahiru stiffened, concentrating on the feel of the mountain underneath them. "Is it stopping?" she quavered.

It shook in the next moment, sending her flying backwards with a yelp. Fakir whirled and reached out, catching her by the wrist.

"It's stopping in the kingdom proper, but it's gathering here!" Mytho gasped. "Be careful!"

Fakir cursed. "Brace yourselves!" he instructed.

Ahiru dug her hands into the grass. Would Fakir be able to write them out of this? Would they all stay alive, including him? What if he ended up as sick as Autor had, or worse? In desperation she tried to push the thoughts away. Fakir needed support, not doubts and worries.

The fierce wind and the shaking were both damaging Fakir's concentration, not to mention his physical ability to write at all. His hair blew madly, while the satchel threatened to soar away in spite of his attempts to hold it down.

"This isn't working!" he cried. "I'm going to need everyone's help!"

Mytho promptly fell to his knees, restraining the back corners of the bag. Ahiru reached to try to pull Fakir's hair away from his eyes. Autor restrained _him._ With the increasing dangers of the weather, he would not be surprised if they were all carried away within a few minutes. The wind was swirling around them as though trying with invisible hands to pry them apart from each other.

"What can we do?" Rue asked as she and Uzura fought their way over, yelling to be heard over the howling wind. Rue gripped the child's hand, apparently concerned about the same thing as Autor.

"Hold the other corners of the bag," Fakir yelled back.

Rue and Uzura each took one, holding them up enough that Fakir had room to move the quill across the paper. He held the sheets down as they flipped up in determination, gritting his teeth against the insane storm.

"It's no use," the Story said, its voice echoing on the wind. "The more you struggle, the more you'll find it's all in vain."

"That sounds like Drosselmeyer," Fakir growled. "I won't accept any of his philosophies!"

"Suit yourself," the Story replied. "It's more fun to torment you if you fight back anyway."

"Fakir! If you can't beat it right away, we won't even be able to fight back!" Ahiru wailed. The swirling winds were closing in on them. She shut her eyes tight. Would they all be carried off by it, as if it was a tornado? They might never see each other again!

"I know!" Fakir shot back.

"_The Story had been corrupted by its hatred and anger, but could it really go through with its intended mass murder? Could it kill the one who had written it into existence? It was true that the great majority of people had forgotten it, but without the writer it would not have been born in the first place. And part of the writer's soul was still the heart of the Story. At least part of it could not want things to come to this end."_

Uzura gave a stunned cry as she was ripped away from where she was trying to hold one corner of the bag. Everyone stared in horror. "Uzura!" Rue burst out, reaching in desperation for the child puppet. But it was no use; other winds were carrying her far away while the original cyclone raged around the others.

"That's going to be all of our fate!" Autor yelled over the roaring wind. He continued to hold Fakir down as he tried to look over the top of their prison. There was no sign of Uzura now. But . . . surely she would survive, wouldn't she? Especially since she was not even of the human race.

"_The heart of the Story . . ."_ Fakir gasped, his own heart suddenly struck with a stabbing pain. Spots swirled in front of his eyes. But no! He was not going to succumb to unconsciousness, not this time. _"The heart of the Story . . . rebelled. . . ."_

The winds closed in tighter. Ahiru clutched at Fakir and Autor, her heart hammering wildly. Rue and Mytho reached for each other and then their friends, knowing it would be wisest if they all stayed together. But still, would it help them in the end?

"_It rebelled!"_ Fakir screamed as he wrote it.

Then he could write no more. The satchel was flung from his grasp, the papers flying free and scattering to the winds. And even as the five teenagers held on in frantic desperation, they were all pulled into the rings of the funnel.

Ahiru shrieked as they were forcibly separated. "Fakir!" she cried, her hand still outstretched in vain to grab for him or any of the others. For a moment that she knew, the wretched tornado spun her about. Then everything passed out of her knowledge.

xxxx

"Ahiru? _Ahiru?_"

As the panicked voice broke through her consciousness, pain shot through her body. Everything ached. A weak moan escaped her lips as she fought to push her eyes open. Nothing was in focus. But as her eyesight began to return, she took in the sight of Fakir bending over her, his own eyes heartsick. When he saw her awake he leaned back to give her some space.

"Are you alright?" he demanded.

Weakly she reached up to rub at her head. "Yeah, I think so. . . ." But then the memories flooded back and she flew upright in horror. "Oh my gosh, the tornado!" she exclaimed. "What happened to everyone else? Where are we? What . . ." Dizziness swirled over her and she moaned, starting to sink back to the ground.

"Idiot," Fakir scolded. He caught her, hesitating a moment before laying her down gently on the grass.

"Everyone's here," he said, cutting off an attempted retort.

"Okay?" Ahiru mumbled.

"Yes." Now it was Autor's voice. Ahiru turned her head to the side. He was kneeling near her and Fakir, looking disheveled but not seriously hurt. The moonlight reflecting off his glasses concealed the concern in his eyes, though she was certain she had seen it for a brief moment. "We awakened one by one to find ourselves here. You were the last."

"Everyone's okay zura!" Uzura cheered from her position.

"I'm so glad," Ahiru said. Her eyes widened. "But wait, does this mean it's over?" She sat up again, slower this time. "The Story let us go?"

"I don't know what happened," Fakir said. "We're here and alive, and it looks like the disasters in the kingdom stopped."

Mytho nodded. "Surely it must be over," he said. "Otherwise we likely would have all perished."

"The only other clue we have is the Story's sword," Fakir said. "I found it stabbed into the ground near me when I woke up. When I reached to touch it, it broke apart into white feathers and blew away."

Ahiru blinked in surprise. "That's . . . a good thing, right?" she said slowly.

"We can only hope," Fakir muttered. Louder he said, "I found my sword too. It's completely whole again." He indicated the occupied sheath at his side.

"That's weird," Ahiru said. "Did the Story give it back to you? Or did you write it back?"

"If I wrote it back, I didn't know I did," Fakir said. "I wasn't writing about it when I said I'd call my sword back to me."

"You have to be very careful with Story-Spinning," Autor said. "It might take something literally that you didn't intend." His eyes gleamed. "I'll begin researching this as soon as possible."

"Is it really important?" Fakir retorted.

"It could be," Autor said, frowning at Fakir. "You should be more concerned about it yourself."

Uzura looked to Fakir hopefully. "Is your heart lovey-dovey again zura?" she asked, inadvertently interrupting their conversation.

Fakir stared at her. "What?"

Autor smirked. Ahiru went red in embarrassment. But before she could try to say something to explain the awkward question, something else occurred to her.

"Charon!" she cried. "What happened to Charon and the medics?"

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "We don't know," he said. "If you're up to it, let's get going. We need to find what happened to them."

Again worry began to come to the forefront of Ahiru's feelings. She gave a nod, stumbling to her feet. Fakir stood as well, reaching to steady her as she swayed.

Ahiru's thoughts tumbled in her mind as the party began to walk. They were still on the mountain, but her sense of direction had been badly damaged. She had no idea how far they were from their previous location. At the moment she would not care, if it were not for worrying over how they would help Charon if they were too far away.

He had to be alright! They could not have come through all of this only to lose someone dear to them! From the set of Fakir's jaw, he was far more worried than he would ever say. Ahiru vowed to be quiet on the matter. She did not want to say something that would make him all the more worried or that would sound trite and thoughtless.

But then a voice echoed on the air. "Prince!"

Mytho stiffened, looking towards the direction of the cry. "It's one of the medics," he said. He broke into a run, hurrying ahead of the others. Fakir soon tore after him.

When Ahiru and the others caught up, the medics were preparing to go down the mountain in the carriage. Charon was lying across the backseat of the cab, semi-conscious. He gazed up at the boys leaning worriedly over the side of the vehicle.

"Mytho," he rasped. "Fakir. . . ."

And Ahiru smiled once more, peace and joy casting out her fears. She looked up at Autor, her eyes shining. The overwhelming feeling she had now was that everything would be alright. They were alive. They were safe.

And they remembered.

**Just one more installment to go! Is the Story defeated or will it return again? Hmm.**


	15. Epilogue

**Notes: And it's done! Epilogues always give me heck, since I have to make sure to tie up all the loose ends. Most of the time, I forget something important. I hope I remembered everything this time. You wouldn't believe how much I've been editing and adding to it. Thanks to everyone who has been following this story!**

**Epilogue**

The next hours were a confused blur for the most part.

Everyone returned to the palace as quickly as possible, wanting to get Charon to where the medics could help him best. Fakir and Mytho waited just outside Charon's room for a time, then in Fakir's—though eventually Mytho was called out on other business. He left with an apologetic glance at Fakir, who waved him on. Charon would understand, as did Fakir.

Charon had only been awake for a short time after they had found him and the medics on the mountain, and he had not had the strength for a conversation, but he had been aware enough to understand when Fakir had told him that he remembered everything. The utter relief and joy that had come over his features could never be surpassed. And while Fakir had been gratified to see that, it had also pierced his heart anew; he had not been able to refrain from thinking of how deeply he had hurt Charon and everyone else.

As he continued to wait, Fakir frowned at the thoughts entering and mingling through his mind. The others also knew that he remembered—he had told them on the way back. But he had not had the chance to say he was sorry for what had happened. And they certainly deserved apologies, after everything he had put them through.

He crossed to the door and slipped into the spacious hall. Ahiru's door was open, and when he stepped closer, he saw that she was not there. His eyes narrowed. He would have to find her later.

The sound of a creaking door across the way gave him a start. Autor was standing at his doorway, having been pulling the heavy door shut. But upon seeing Fakir he had stopped, just looking at the other boy with an unreadable expression.

Fakir walked over to him. "Autor . . ." The words, if he had actually had them, had caught in his throat. Autor looked terrible. And of course that was because of what he had done to try to save Fakir.

Fakir shook his head. "I don't know what to say," he muttered.

"Then if you'll excuse me, I'm exhausted," Autor said.

Fakir grunted. "I won't keep you," he said. "But I . . . I'm sorry."

"For my unsightly appearance? Don't be." But Autor sighed, more from understanding than weariness. "Though I realize that's a very trite and unfeeling bit of advice."

"It's hard to follow when I know it's my fault," Fakir grumbled, looking away.

"I made my choice based on the Story's actions. By that point, it had threatened to kill you by morning if you didn't remember in full." Autor fixed Fakir with a firm look. "It was out of your control."

"If I'd trusted in you and the others sooner, maybe I would have started to remember and things never would've got to that point," Fakir retorted.

"There's no way to know. The 'if's will come for a while, so I won't tell you not to think of them."

"Do the pain and guilt ever ease up?" Fakir wondered.

"It's a slow process," Autor said, "but yes, eventually they begin to."

Fakir sighed but then grimly smirked, crossing his arms. "It's ironic," he said.

Autor gave him a questioning look. "I'm guessing you're planning to elaborate," he said.

"I was so angry and disgusted and hurt towards you for allowing yourself to be corrupted by powerlust." Fakir spoke deliberately and matter-of-factly. He looked away, gazing at a point on the floor in the distance. His voice lowered as he spoke once more. "Now I've come to understand at least a little of what you must have felt over what you and your wayward Story did."

"I thought as much. Though our situations were not the same. You didn't set out with a selfish goal in mind. The Story simply lashed out at you when you were defenseless and unprepared."

Fakir gave him a long look. "I don't think you set out to be selfish, either," he said. "At least not entirely."

Autor could not fully conceal the surprise in his eyes. "No," he conceded, averting his gaze. "Perhaps not."

Fakir pushed himself away from the doorframe. "I'll let you go to sleep," he said. "But do you know where Ahiru is?"

"I don't," Autor said. "She could be anywhere in the palace right now."

Fakir nodded. "I'll look for her if she doesn't come back up."

"How is Charon?" Autor queried.

Fakir let out a sigh. "They're not sure yet," he said. "I'm going back to check." He stepped back, then paused. "And thanks."

Autor gave a slow nod in return. "I have to say," he said, "it's good to have you back."

Now Fakir regarded him in surprise. That was not something he had expected Autor would say, even though he knew Autor was relieved.

Autor cleared his throat, now looking uncomfortable. "I'm going to bed," he said abruptly.

"Fine," Fakir said. "You do that."

As he turned and walked back to Charon's room, he heard the door close quietly behind him.

_We've come a long way,_ he realized to himself. _Even if it's still hard to admit it aloud._

xxxx

Ahiru, as it was, had been downstairs taking care of Uzura, trying to comfort the worried little girl and assure her that everything would be alright. Rue had not been able to show them around but had told her it was fine to take Uzura all over the palace, if that would get her mind off of everything. And for the past couple of hours they had done just that. Uzura had been fascinated by each room and all within them, asking many questions that Ahiru had no answer for. Ahiru herself probably had just as many.

She had intended to try to get Autor to go back to bed, but Rue had informed her that he had done so on his own. Though Ahiru was relieved to hear that, she was also worried. He would never do that unless he himself was acknowledging his injuries. And he would only do that if he thought they were serious—which meant most assuredly that they were.

At last she sighed, slumping back into a fancy couch and staring up at the ceiling. It was still hard to believe that it was over. After all of the heartache and pain, Fakir _remembered._ All that she had feared had not come to pass. They were alive and well, the Story forced to abandon its ideas of vengeance and return to its original design. At least, she hoped that was the case. Fakir had said there was no way to know; they would just have to wait and see.

_I hope it's stopped doing horrible things,_ she thought to herself.

They all needed a long break after this. Autumn had been filled with one disaster after another. It had been the culmination of Autor's power-driven insanity, which had started several months earlier. Then Autor had been hurt and needed time to get better. He had wondered if he had really been important in the fight against Drosselmeyer, and Ahiru as Princess Tutu had unknowingly possessed the power to show him the truth; her pendant had sent him into a world where he had never existed. And now Fakir's Story had risen up in rebellion and tormented all of them.

Ahiru was ready for autumn to be over, even though she was not sure what to think of the cold snows of winter that Fakir had described. But she was still hoping for the chance to celebrate the Christmas holidays in peace. After being restored to human form, she had wanted to learn all about the holidays and other events in Kinkan Town. Christmas, with its decorations and bright lights and other traditions, intrigued and excited her the most.

_I just want us all to be happy,_ she thought. _Is that too much to ask?_

She pushed herself upright. Maybe, hopefully, they really could be now. She would not stop believing, even though at the moment she just felt so tired and worn out.

It was some time later when to her surprise she heard the strains of a piano. Giving a last glance to Uzura, who had long ago fallen asleep on the couch, she stood and headed down the hall. The music grew louder the further she went, the moderately fast tune echoing off the old castle walls.

At last she found that the door to the music room was half-open. She pushed it further along, peering inside.

"Autor?" she called. It was definitely him sitting at the bench, where previously he had risked his life composing his piece to save Fakir. An involuntary shiver went up Ahiru's spine.

He did not turn. "Has there been any news?" he asked.

"The doctors are still trying to help Charon, I think," Ahiru said softly as she stepped into the room. "And I thought you were in bed. . . ."

"I was," Autor said.

Ahiru frowned. "Shouldn't you still be?" she said. "You were hurt so bad, and then you were outside all that time and the tornado threw you and . . ."

"I'll lie down again," he interrupted. "But not yet."

Ahiru sighed. Going over to the piano, she crossed her arms on the edge. "That's pretty," she said.

"It's Mozart's _Turkish March_," he answered.

She blinked when she noticed he was not looking at any sheet music. But then again, why should that surprise her? Autor prided himself on memorizing things. He probably had a whole lot of songs stored away in his mind.

She straightened. "I like hearing you play," she said. "Especially when it's not going to hurt you." She shuddered.

"I prefer it that way myself," Autor remarked.

"You risked so much for Fakir," Ahiru said quietly. "We couldn't have saved him if you hadn't. . . ."

"Don't downgrade your own role in what happened," Autor said. "You risked just as much, perhaps more."

"Oh, I don't think I really . . ." But Ahiru trailed off. By going out on the mountain, she really could have died too. Then again, they all would have if she had not brought the materials for Fakir to write with.

She took a deep breath. "I think I'll go check on Fakir," she said now. "I would've gone before, but Uzura was awake and worried and they didn't want her in the room while the doctors were working. . . ."

". . . I spoke to Fakir earlier," Autor said, feeling that she deserved to know that much.

Ahiru regarded him in surprise. "You did? When?"

"Right before I laid down. He came to the doorway and talked with me for a moment, then went on his way."

Ahiru blinked. "What did he say?" she wondered.

Autor sighed. She had not taken the hint that he did not really want to discuss the matter of the conversation's contents. He said simply, "Mostly he wanted to apologize for his behavior."

"Oh yeah." Ahiru looked down. "That's right, he didn't even really get to talk to you after you woke up before. We were all so busy with the Story and everything."

Autor nodded.

"Actually," Ahiru realized, "this is the first time I've really been able to talk to you since then. I haven't had the chance to tell you how happy I am that you're going to be okay."

"I know you are," Autor said, coloring a bit. "You don't need to say it."

"Yeah . . . but I like to anyway," Ahiru said. Sudden tears pricked her eyes at the memory of those agonizing hours. "The doctors didn't know if you'd ever wake up!"

Autor looked away. "I wasn't about to break my promise," he said.

"Well, good!" Ahiru said. "I wouldn't have ever forgiven you if you had!"

But of course that was not true and both of them knew it. They lapsed into silence as Autor continued to play the classical piece.

Ahiru shifted her weight. "Well, I guess I'll go see him now," she said. But she hesitated, continuing to stand at the piano.

Autor was very pale. Behind his glasses, his eyes looked tired. And his hands were shaking slightly as he guided his fingers over the keys. But he definitely looked stronger than he had when they had first come back to the palace.

"Please don't stay up too long," Ahiru said softly, laying her hand on his shoulder as she walked past.

He glanced at her in surprise, but gave a nod of acknowledgment. "I won't," he said.

And somehow she felt he meant it.

xxxx

Ahiru found Fakir upstairs, leaning with crossed arms against Charon's closed door. She hurried the rest of the way over to him, her shoes echoing on the marble floor of the palace. Fakir looked up, not surprised to see her.

"How is he?" Ahiru demanded as she stumbled, nearly toppling over from the unplanned stop. She waved her arms frantically to regain her balance.

Fakir gave her an unimpressed look before replying. "He lost a lot of blood, but he'll get better," he said. "They're finishing up in there now."

Ahiru clasped her hands in relief. "Thank goodness," she said.

"Mytho suggested all of us stay here until Charon is well enough to travel."

Ahiru perked up. "Will we?" she chirped.

He allowed a smile at Ahiru's visible enthusiasm over the idea. "Yeah," he said. "There's no reason not to."

Ahiru gave a bright smile as she skipped the rest of the way to the door. But then she sobered, looking down as she bit her lip. "Um, Fakir?"

"What is it?" he returned. "And if this is about forgetting me, don't bother," he added.

Ahiru froze. How did he _do_ that? "But . . ."

"I caused you, and everyone, so much pain. I deserved to know how it feels." Fakir pushed himself away from the door.

Ahiru shook her head fiercely. "No you didn't!" she cried. "You were just remembering all of us, and then the Story made us forget you!" She clenched her fists. "It wasn't fair!"

"Nothing about what it did to us was fair," Fakir said. "And yet, I wonder if it had a point."

Ahiru stopped and blinked, stunned. "Eh? What are you talking about, Fakir?" she exclaimed.

"Maybe it should be remembered," Fakir said. "I didn't deliberately write that everyone forgot; that's just what ended up happening. And when it did, I just went with it and figured that was best. Now I'm not so sure." He looked back to Ahiru.

"What happened to everyone in Drosselmeyer's Story was important. It was weird, not to mention angering and unsettling, but it controlled their lives and several generations of lives before that. And I've come to realize that not remembering really is to lose part of yourself. I don't want that for everyone in Kinkan. They should know every part of their lives, even the angering and unsettling."

Ahiru thought on his words for a moment before nodding. "Yeah," she said slowly. "I guess you're right, Fakir. So . . . what are you going to do?"

"When we get back, I'll see if they still remember. If they don't, I'll write a Story to fix that." But then he paused, a new idea coming to him. "Or you could write those friends of yours and see what they have to say," he said. "If they remember everything, they'll want to talk to you."

"That's true," Ahiru said. "And I guess I'll need to let them know we're away for a while, anyway. They'll be worried." She smiled. "Okay! I'll write them tomorrow."

Fakir nodded in approval, refraining from making a comment about Lilie probably not worrying and only being delighted thinking of the many horrible possibilities that could be happening to Ahiru. Piké he could tolerate, but Lilie ground his patience more every time he saw her.

"How's Autor?" he asked.

"He was resting for a while," Ahiru said. "But then he got up and went to the music room. He's playing something on the piano. I . . . think he told me it's called March's _Turkish Mozart_ or something. Wait, that's not right. . . ." She placed a finger to the side of her head in confusion.

"So he's not Spinning anything," Fakir surmised, not sure whether to look at her in disbelief or amusement.

Ahiru shook her head. "I think right now he just kinda wants to unwind and relax," she said.

_After all of this, who wouldn't,_ Fakir thought to himself.

Aloud he said, "Charon needs to rest. Let's go downstairs."

"You mean to Autor?" Ahiru asked.

Fakir shrugged. "I need to talk with him about some things . . . but they can wait," he added. "Let's just check in on him and the others. Maybe take a walk or something." He shoved his hands in his pockets, stepping away from the door.

Ahiru hurried after him as he started down the corridor. She frowned, racking her mind for something to say but coming up blank. Did Fakir have something he wanted to talk about? He seemed somewhat edgy.

"Autor's been with you through this whole thing, hasn't he."

Ahiru started. "Um, yeah," she said. "We were the first ones there with you when you woke up acting weird." She looked down at the floor. "I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't been around," she added more quietly. Autor had buoyed her up and given her strength, much as Fakir himself had done when they had fought to save Mytho. And without him, Fakir's memories most likely could not have started to unlock.

She looked up again with a bright smile. "He and you are both my best friends, Fakir," she said.

Fakir gave her a deadpan look. "I know that," he said.

And he would do his best to live up to that, he vowed. He never wanted to forget Ahiru or any of the others ever again.

He could not help glowering at the floor as they walked. So many had nearly died for his sake. As far as he was concerned, that was unforgivable—both on the Story's and on his own part. He never should have let things fall to that level. He could have lost everyone, largely because of his own stubbornness and refusal to listen.

Of course, Ahiru would put all the blame on the Story, as she had been doing. He did not think he ever could. At least not for a long time.

Ahiru moved closer, peering up at him. "Fakir!" she said in frustration. "What's wrong? I know something is!"

"It's nothing," Fakir retorted. "Just . . . I'm sorry," he amended, his voice dropping. "For everything." Hopefully in time, the weight of his guilt and anger at himself would fade. Right now it was still too fresh. With Ahiru's own guilt it was likely the same. They both needed time to heal from this.

Ahiru shook her head. "You don't want me to feel bad about forgetting you, Fakir, and I feel the same about you!" she said. Her voice lowered. "I mean, it was really hard and it hurt so much . . . but it wasn't your fault. You don't need to say anything."

Of course, that was how Ahiru would feel. That should not be a surprise.

"I wish I'd trusted you sooner," Fakir said.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't wish that too," Ahiru said softly.

Fakir glared at the elaborate walls. "I was stupid," he muttered. "Deep down I knew the truth, but I was afraid to accept it. I didn't want to admit that I was someone I couldn't even remember. What if I didn't like who I was? It felt so much safer to think that I was Lohengrin, the person I did think I remembered."

Ahiru stared at him, stunned. "Fakir . . ." she gasped.

"I guess it was kind of like you with Mytho's heart shard of Hope," Fakir said. "I didn't want to let go of the role the Story had assigned for me."

Ahiru's eyes widened. "So . . . I guess we still don't know whether you're really Lohengrin or not," she said slowly.

"No," Fakir said, "but I really don't care. If I was him, that life's over now."

"Yeah. . . ." Ahiru smiled. "But if he was really the way you thought, Fakir, then he was like you in some ways."

"Maybe," Fakir said noncommittally.

"It's true!" Ahiru insisted. "He was kind and wanted to help people, just like you!"

"I remember you also said he was annoying, grumpy, and crabby," Fakir intoned.

"Actually I said that about you," Ahiru mumbled, "but yeah, Lohengrin was acting like that too." She looked up at him again. "But he was more . . . well, I'm not sure what you'd call it. . . ."

"Pompous?" Fakir offered.

"Probably," Ahiru said.

"If the real Lohengrin wasn't like that, and I've never heard Mytho say he was, then he's probably rolling over in his grave at how I murdered his character," Fakir remarked.

Ahiru looked at him in shock. "He's _what?_"

Fakir shook his head. "It's just an expression," he said.

"A really creepy one," Ahiru shuddered. She perked up. "But if he's rolling over in his grave, then you aren't him!"

"That's one way to look at it, I guess," Fakir said, unable to help being a bit amused now.

Ahiru sighed. "Well . . . I'm just glad it's over," she said. "You remember everything, and Autor and Charon are going to be okay, and . . ." She trailed off, slowing to a stop in the hall.

Fakir stopped too. "What is it now?" he frowned.

Impulsively, she reached out and hugged him. "I've missed you so much, Fakir," she said. "I'm so glad you're back."

Fakir stiffened, the blush creeping up his cheeks. Of all things, he had not expected this.

Ahiru pulled back, flaming red as well. "I'm sorry," she said. "I . . ."

But Fakir shook his head. "Don't apologize, idiot," he said.

Again they resumed walking, both still looking somewhat flushed. After a moment Fakir smiled, albeit quietly, as he studied the amazing girl who had never given up on him. And the others who had actively tried to restore his memories and had never stopped believing and hoping—Autor, Charon, Uzura, Mytho, and even Rue—were just as amazing.

At the moment, though he did not feel deserving, he did not know how anyone could be more blessed than he.

"I'm glad I'm back too," he said at last, still staring ahead.

Ahiru looked up at him, somewhat in surprise that he had spoken. Then she smiled.

Yes, it was as she had hoped. Everything would be okay.


End file.
